


Profess

by RueRambunctious



Series: The Professor, The Painter And The Part-Time Prostitute [1]
Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bottom Sebastian, Chastity Device, Class Issues, Classism, College, Come Swallowing, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Do I ever write about anything else?, Dom/sub Undertones, Escort Service, Gratuitous Smut, Masturbation, Multi, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Oxford, Polyamory, Possessive Jim, Possessive Moriarty, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Race, Sharing, Slow Build, Spanking, Strap-Ons, Sub Sebastian, Swearing, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Jim Moriarty, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 58,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: Sebastian is in his early twenties and perfectly capable of juggling Oxford, army training, a minimum wage job, a terrible little flat, and a morally dubious earner.Then he wanders into the wrong lecture one day and his world quite crashes around his ears. Falling for a professor with a secret of his own does that.As if things couldn't get any more complicated, Sebastian then has the terrible sense to get involved with the beautiful woman Prof. Jim Moriarty lives with.





	1. The Wrong Damned Lecture

If anything can truly be blamed for his having met Jim Moriarty, Sebastian blames public transport. Sebastian was far from a lazy student and was generally speaking always prepared and punctual for classes. He knew fine well to mistrust public transport timetables and had an efficiently worked out plan incorporating the likelihood that of the train and two buses he was supposed to take, at least two of these would be late, and one definitely would not turn up at all.

In all of his experience of relying on such transportation (and since he moved out of his father's house that was quite a lot) Sebastian was entirely used to public transport being abysmal and his daily plans incorporated a great deal of buffer time before classes to ensure he was never late. His father was so set to see Sebastian fail studying a humanities subject instead of a more 'practical' choice like politics or engineering.

Sebastian had refused to give his father that satisfaction and by some queer twist of fate, on one particular day, public transport had Sebastian running late. This was not remotely unusual, but that day it was stressful, and Sebastian quite failed to notice that the bus that took him the final leg of his journey was early, and remained almost empty for most of the route. The bus made good time, but Sebastian threw himself off of it at his stop and pelted his way towards the lecture hall he was sure would already be full of other students.

It was full of other students, but it was not full of his classmates.

Sebastian was early, and as he silently slunk into the room and settled at a chair near the door he did not notice anything amiss.

Then the lecturer spoke, and Sebastian was startled by a musical, Irish drawl. The blond looked up in surprise and had a sickly moment as he took in the board behind the unfamiliar professor.

Equations.

Sebastian had let himself into the wrong lecture. He squirmed in his seat and looked around himself to see if anyone was staring at him aware he should not be here.

No one paid him any mind and Sebastian had half an urge to stand up and get out (whilst he wracked his brains in a panicked fashion to understand how he could possibly be in the wrong place) but he was certain standing up to leave would draw further attention to himself. It seemed unspeakably rude to walk out of the lecture, especially considering how hard people tried to get into this university. Whatever maths related subject this was, Sebastian was certain it was a fiercely competitive course.

Sebastian swallowed and settled into his chair miserably.

He checked his expensive watch and cursed himself inwardly, finally realising he was _early_.

He hated himself a little bit at that moment. Sebastian's heart rate had mostly gone back to normal but his teeshirt was damp with sweat beneath his jacket. He peeled the oversized leather off with a grimace and for lack of anything better to do gazed out towards the Irish lecturer.

The man was young, young enough to be a student teacher or indeed an actual student, if his looks could be trusted. Sebastian supposed the lecturer had a baby face and perhaps a spark of brilliance that had progressed his education and career, as there was nothing youthful or unpractised about the way the lecturer commanded his post. He held himself with a confidence suggesting age and experience, and he had superbly shrewd dark eyes which cut across the packed lecture hall.

Sebastian swallowed and squirmed a little in his seat. Something about the Irishman's mere glance had Sebastian feeling utterly discomfited. The blond tried his best to look like he followed the lecture even just a little bit.

The lecturer was a slight man with dark hair and the sort of girlish pale skin that suggested much more time hunched over textbooks and calculations than pints and horse race results. Sebastian could snap this little man in half without much exertion but… something about him gave the blond chills.

Sebastian always did have a good sense of self preservation. The problem was that whilst he easily recognised danger, he had an unhealthy habit of following it about.

Sebastian left the class with the other students when the lecture finished and avoided everyone's eyes. Balliol was one of Oxford's largest colleges and with any luck no one would notice him as a stranger in their midst. He loitered in the hallway and waited for his own classmates, to whom he said not a bloody word about his humiliating mistake.

After class Sebastian went to his college's gym and spent a few hours there. He was to be an army officer as soon as he graduated and his commanding officer had given Sebastian a comprehensive physical training routine to follow alongside his studies. Sebastian quite enjoyed the exercise but could not help how his mind wandered back to the pale, young-looking Irish lecturer.

There was something about the man that made Sebastian's heart race. He was sweating heavily by the time he finished his routine and barely noticed he had smashed his previous workout records.

Most of Sebastian's classmates still lived on campus but he had gotten a private let for the summer of his first year and had not come back. He had his reasons for that.

Sebastian forewent the public transport nightmare on the way home and walked instead. His teeshirt being as damp as it was he told himself it was a kindness to commuters, but really he felt unsettled and needed the walk.

Sebastian dumped his books at the door and peeled off his clothes as he wandered towards the shower. His thoughts drifted to Irish drawls and dark, glinting eyes but Sebastian did not have time for such weaknesses. The long walk had cost him time and he needed to get ready for work.

Sebastian sighed, dried himself off, and changed into a barista uniform that was tight across his muscular chest. The job fell laughably short of paying his rent, much less all of his bills, but Sebastian needed a cover for how he actually made most of his money.

Sebastian grabbed a post-workout milkshake from his fridge and grabbed his book bag. His late shifts were quiet and he would manage at least a couple of hours of study.

Or at least, he would normally.

Sebastian couldn't get that dammed little professor out of his head.


	2. You Can't Call It Accidental The Second Time

Growing up Sebastian had often been chided for being too idealistic and rash. He spent most of his youth burning at experiencing treatment he considered unjust and the days he was not in trouble for rushing into some ill thought out action were few and far between.

He tries, though. Sebastian knows his faults well (he'd heard about them all often enough) and honestly tries to be self-controlled and sensible. A proper man. Not a whiny, explosive brat incapable of knuckling down.

That doesn't necessarily mean he often succeeds, or even that he is correct to quash his much maligned characteristics. Despite this, Sebastian is a much more well-disciplined and pragmatic young man than he takes himself for. His 'foolish pigheadedness' that led him to undertake his English degree has taken a lot of hard work and due diligence. Sebastian has had to work extremely hard and be exceptionally organised to support himself alone in Oxford. Or rather, the outskirts of Oxford, which is not massively more affordable when one considers how much the slow as treacle buses on the congested roads are, but _is_ a lot less populated with people who know Sebastian's family.

As it is, Sebastian's got a job later with someone living in Iffley Village: one of the most expensive places in Oxford, despite being a stone's throw away from some of the most notorious council estates, but that was Oxford for you. They won't meet in Iffley of course, it would raise too many questions, but there are plenty enough dubious places in nearby Cowley that don't look too hard at young men whether or not they're unmistakably the son of a former Minister (of the former Persian Empire, to be exact).

It's rather hard to be anonymous when you're a young Lord by birth and have a rather spectacular facial scar.

Fortunately, the people Sebastian works with don't spend all their time staring at his face, and on the occasions when they do, their comments tend to circle Sebastian's thick, sensual lips.

Sebastian is quite used to the comments people make. Despite his strong build he is _just_ on the pretty side of handsome and one cannot attend anywhere near the amount of balls Sebastian's mother throws without having one's appearance remarked upon. The Lord Moran has mentioned more than once that Sebastian ought be grateful for the scarring for the shred of humbleness it carved into his conceited son, but whilst Sebastian is a fairly confident young man he's never truly been cocky.

Or at least, not about his looks. He's certainly been cocky when outsmarting authority figures, even when it has left him with his flesh smarting afterwards.

That lack of sense driving him to foolishness again. It's inescapable. Sebastian is a young man of instinct and he succumbs regularly to its call, whatever the consequences.

He knows it of course. Sebastian had always been an intelligent lad, and he has grown remarkably self reflective in the last few years.

He _knows_ he makes bad decisions and he _honesty_ tries to stop himself.

But… he's not quite fully gotten the hang of it yet.

And… Things that snap him out of the relative boredom of his regimented little life? Well, those are the hardest of them all to deny himself.

Therefore it comes as exactly no surprise that the intriguing, shiver-inducing Irishman has been playing on Sebastian's mind all week. 

Sebastian tries to put the dratted thing out of his mind of course. He does. Quite diligently in fact does he throw himself into his studies and his training. The line down his sternum is even more defined than usual in testament to how hard Sebastian had maintained his efforts not to think about glinting eyed maths professors.

It matters not a jot of course (much in the way most of Sebastian's attempts to behave have a wicked habit of not panning out).

Sebastian gets himself into Balliol early again and despite the lies he tells himself about how he _is not_ going into that damned lecture… He of course settles himself down.

Sebastian does his best to unobtrusively sit out of the way of anyone else without making it obvious that he does not belong there. He has even bought himself squared paper to better resemble someone with a right to be present here, even though he hasn't had the heating on for over a week for fear of overstretching his strained finances.

One might take this as evidence that Sebastian's deviance here is premeditated, but it honestly is not. Sebastian bought the paper on a compulsive whim wanting to absorb for that moment the feeling of being a student who regularly heard an addictive Irish drawl in lectures. Sebastian wanted to daydream, nothing more was intended.

When he put the paper (and a battered old scientific calculator he did not remember taking from his father's house) into his bag, Sebastian was still daydreaming. He was still telling himself that he was not going in. He did not belong. It was not proper.

His feet had other ideas.

Sebastian finds himself sweating as other students continue to pour into the room. When the young professor sweeps along to the front of the room Sebastian feels a thrill of fear which makes him flinch forward and curl his fingers around the little desk his large legs do not adequately fit underneath.

Sebastian has to consciously regulate his breathing. He's not simply fearful: he's _excited_ and despite barely being out of his teens Sebastian cannot remember the last time such little contact with a person could have him so… embarrassingly… _aroused_.

Sebastian shifts in his seat and hates himself a little. He hates himself even more when he has to half crouch as he reaches over to accept the bit of paper someone hands him. He returns to his seat quickly.

He slowly fixes his gaze to the slip of paper with a feeling of dread. It is a register.

Sebastian swallows, writes the date and an illegible scrawl he hopes will pass as an innocent enough false signature.

He passes the register on to the next ( _legitimate_ ) student hastily.

The entire lecture goes over Sebastian's head but he tries to seem attentive and remotely intelligent. The entire time he can feel his heart racing and he swallows akwardly like he's reaching for a girl's hand for the first time. Several times the pale lecturer's dark eyes look up and seem to cut Sebastian from the crowd; nothing further happens but it makes Sebastian quite dizzy with fear. Locking gaze with the Irishman provides the same electric shock as the first time a girl reached for Sebastian's flies, or the first time a boy gave him the look over after rugby.

Sebastian's hands are actually trembling by the end of the lecture. He unglues himself from his seat and quite forgets his bag as he flees to the nearest gents' toilets.

He hides out in a cubicle and bangs the door closed. He's flushed and uncertain and it has been _years_ since a silly crush made Sebastian fuzzy headed like this.

It dawns on Sebastian he is going to be late for his _actual_ lecture. He hurriedly leaves the cubicle to splash water on his face and wash the germs from the lock off of his hands.

Sebastian returns to the lecture room amidst the stragglers and is momentarily confused to find the seat he had vacated is the only one in a cluster still empty. Feeling oddly guilty, Sebastian looks for somewhere else to sit, but then he realises he doesn't have any of his belongings.

Of course. The seat is empty because other students have read it to be occupied.

Sebastian shamefacedly shuffles past the others to reach his seat. He recognises his friends and feels marginally less awkward.

“There you are!” says one.

“We saw your stuff and wondered where you where!” another adds cheerfully.

Sebastian's awkward feeling instantly returns. Anonymity is not his. “I wasn't feeling very well,” he mumbles and the sympathetic clap on his shoulder suggests they believe him.

Then again, it's not exactly a lie.

Afterwards Sebastian genuinely considers cancelling that night's short shift. He's utterly unsettled and being flustered is a dangerous hindrance in his line of work. Sloppiness is the enemy of alertness.

Regardless, he cannot afford to do himself out of a few hundred pounds, so he gives himself a stern talking to and goes to work.


	3. You're A Stalker, Sebby

Sebastian moves with difficulty the next day. He foregoes his morning run and instead struggles through a few sets of reps on his worn bedroom floor. Sebastian grimaces and has to breathe through the pain in his muscles; he's shaking long before he finishes the relatively gentle routine.

Over the past few years a rough nub of skin has formed on Sebastian's spine due to the thousands of sit-ups he has performed on hard flooring. This skin is akin to the callouses on the fingers of an experienced guitarist.

This morning Sebastian has to make a nest of his unwashed clothing under his back to keep from wincing too often.

Sebastian's muscles are glad of his morning shower. His broken skin is not. He heads to the library in dark clothing with an extra hoody shoved into his book bag (technically a baby bag, satchels are not designed to withstand heavy textbooks) which he sits on in a quiet space away from other students.

Sebastian likes the library. He's been to a number of them, and likes them for different reasons, but what he enjoys most about all of them is having peace. Were he in less of a fidgety state today he would be taking his books to the silent section.

For the most part Sebastian is known to be an outgoing young man as adept at excelling in a sport as running a campsite. His love of books is not immediately apparent.

Those who spend time with Sebastian however often notice he can be quiet for long periods of time and is prone to lose himself in thoughts quite removed from the mud from a triumphant cup win drying on his bleeding knees or the sound of his breath through his gumshield. 

Sebastian often overthinks. He has a highly tuned awareness of his safety levels in most settings but whilst his perceptions of his surroundings are sound his musings tend to be a hailstorm of cacophonous thought. And he analyses _everything_.

It is part of the reason why Sebastian loves literature: so much can be read without being explicitly said. Even more can be supposed or argued based on the genre, time period, or author.

Sebastian likes books. One can pick them up for rereading again and again and they may make one feel entirely different upon each experience, yet must always progress the same practically. In a book Sebastian finds scope for imagination and thought, without the pitfalls associated with spending enough time around an actual person to develop a perspective on their life's narrative.

Sebastian knows and breaks a great many of society (his _family's society's_ ) rules. He has absorbed a keen understanding of teamwork. 

...He does not particularly appreciate people.

At least, not the way the people around him seem to appreciate certain relationships with others. Even the human interactions in books often leave Sebastian cold, if not exactly unmoved.

He has wondered for a long spell whether his shallow relationships are the product of moving around to suit his father's lifestyle and rarely having the opportunity to foster the sort of friendships fellows write about with zest or even anguish.

Sebastian does not exactly have a problem making friends or being comfortably popular. Indeed, he does not even find much difficulty in bedding others despite the often remarked upon handicap of his scars.

But then, some people like scars. They suggest a story.

Surrounded by books as he is, Sebastian can hardly deny some people do enjoy a story.

Sebastian chews his lip and leans miserably over his graffitied desk. Were anyone nearby, he would be showing off the roots of bleached hair most people are not tall enough to see. Regardless of his various distractions the young man cannot help but turn his thoughts to the maths professor he fears he is becoming tempted to stalk.

He considers the small, dark-haired Irishman with the young flesh and mature movements. What story is hinted at in those frightening, crow black orbs?

Sebastian shivers in his seat just thinking about those eyes. He wakes from tormented dreams these days with memories of elegant, white hands and chips of smouldering coal sinking into a frosty, fearfully cold face.

The lecturer's eyes gives Sebastian nightmares. He wakes up sweating and humiliated and scared and… flushed.

See, they're not exactly 'bad dreams' per se… Not are they entirely unwelcome. Sebastian wakes panting and wide eyed and… crudely put, perspiration is not the only bodily fluid he wakes coated in.

Sebastian burns with shame or something like it. Desiring a teacher type is not unusual he knows, but his growing urge to follow the Irishman around and… and…

Sebastian knocks the heaviest of his least expensive books off of the desk. (He wouldn't dare risk damaging the books he considered selling organs to buy.) When the doomed book crushes his foot the sudden pain manages for a moment to pull Sebastian's thoughts from the haze of irrational impulses.

Someone got Sebastian to wear elastic bands on his wrist as a child and snap them whenever he felt tempted to follow unsavoury urges. The attempt at habit breaking never truly worked but it might belong to a knot of dubious life experiences that ultimately led Sebastian to even more dubious life choices.

It comes as exactly zero surprise to Sebastian when he finds himself in a mathematics lecture less than a week later. He can sit down by this time, but he has a few remaining bruises so vividly green they are still visible on his tan skin. A youth spent Scouting had given Sebastian the knowledge that turning his hand involved similar gradients in colour to a sun bleached pinecone. He had broken up more than one variety in fascination.

Sebastian's father did not discuss Sebastian's mother except with rare outbursts of slurs in Farsi that Sebastian's nannies always refused to explain to him afterwards. Sebastian passed for white ( _tanned_ white) around similarly dressed caucasians but over the years he had begun to realise there was something deeper to his father's fierce refusal to permit Sebastian any play with the brown skinned boys who had populated the hot streets outside the Morans' expensive houses.

Some of the boys eventually helped Sebastian translate the curses, but it took years for him to understand the dualities and hypocrisies of his position and those of others around him.

Sebastian learned though. Men always want power and what they cannot have. If Sebastian's beauty and his musk of scandal caused rich, boring men to fetishize him then it was only practical to adapt.

Sebastian catches sight of his sore skin again and pulls at his clothing. If the men who pay him for savagery see something not quite proper in the cut of his cloth it stands to reason the strangers around him might seek out a scent of something Other about him.

The maths on the board across the large room is a language far more unfamiliar to Sebastian than anything that's ever shaped his coveted tongue. He finds himself practising problems in his 'spare' time when he ought to be studying; it barely helps his comprehension.

It takes a few more lectures and after-lecture studying for Sebastian to figure out what the _heck_ the Irishman's slides were actually about (other than, of course, alien hieroglyphics mocking Sebastian's _insane_ obsession with a member of faculty). 

Oxford has about thirty colleges within the university cluster, and of those, Sebastian belongs to Balliol. In addition to the English classes Sebastian takes, Balliol offers most of the Mathematics options apart from Statistics (which is unfortunate, as Sebastian at least understands the basics of that sort of thing).

Given the fire with which the dark-haired lecturer delivers his subject, and the sheer, utter, alienatingly, frustrating impossibility of the cursed topic, Sebastian thinks he might be sitting in on pure Mathematics lessons. He comprehends so little of the subject he cannot not tell whether the students surrounding him in these lectures were first years or final years, or anything at all other than their freakish ability to have chosen to attend for a reason other than the dark, rich promise in their lecturer's drawl.

It eventually becomes clear to Sebastian that he is not sitting in on pure maths or even the supposedly popular Mathematics and Computer Science course. This is not by any real genius on Sebastian's part, but instead by catching sight of the course title in the narrow fine print of a handout.

Sebastian feels very little guilt when he greedily places the sheet of illgotten paper in his bag. It has touched the lecturer and answers one of the many mysteries about the class.

… What is _wrong_ with him?

Sebastian chides himself in a moment of clarity as he realises this _obsession_ is not healthy behaviour.

Then he realises that whilst everyone else is packing up, he, Sebastian, is not moving remotely swiftly enough. The dark-eyed demon with the beguiling brogue is. Walking. Towards. Him.

Sebastian feels a shock of _fear_ and horror and terror and and… pleasure… and cuts himself on the damned hand out as he fumbles with crumpling more belongings into his bag to escape as soon as possible.

Sebastian grits his teeth and looks down. He swiftly shoulders his bag and realises it looks so much _bigger_ than that of the other students. They doubtlessly bring mammoth textbooks to tutorials but never need more than one for a _lecture_. This isn't Humanities, where wishy washy indecision and anal researching earn you thick biceps and an addiction to caffeine.

Sebastian stands out. The lecturer strides not past him but towards him, and the Irishman might as well have smelt blood.

“Wait a moment.”

This lecturer teaches Mathematics and Philosophy and oh, all the times Sebastian had cracked open a maths textbook at school and muttered 'fuck me' had nothing on the way the brunet's fascinating understanding of the world and numbers now makes Sebastian's mouth dry.

A shiver rippled its way so fiercely down Sebastian's spine that the fresh cuts on his callouses become taunt and split.

The lecturer puts a staying hand on Sebastian's incriminating book bag. All he has to do was push aside the squared paper and…

Sebastian feels quite weak at the knees. His mind goes blank for a moment, and he has no idea if it's from terror/excitement, or because he suddenly knows what the demon-eyed lecturer smells like.


	4. Mary Anne Evans Would At Least Have Had Something Witty To Say About This

“ _Wait a moment_.”

It's all Sebastian can think of for days. The phrase plays over and over in his brain. Sebastian sees the lecturer's thin, expressive lips form the words every time he closes his blue eyes.

Professor Moriarty.

The man has quite captured his soul. Sebastian feels silly for thinking so but he fears it is true. The short exchange between himself and the Maths and Philosophy professor has had him covered in near perpetual goose pimples for _days_. Sebastian is thrilled; he is ecstatic; he is _terrified_.

He is far from certain whether Professor Moriarty _knows_ his attendance at the lectures is illicit, but the man certainly expects _something_.

“I haven't noticed you in earlier lectures,” the man had stated.

Sebastian had swallowed and his dry mouth could only come up with a lie. “I… was sick. Before. I got the notes from my friends. And um, Moodle.”

The dark-haired Irishman seemed unconvinced. “If you are struggling to keep up...”

Sebastian adamantly denied that in a squeak of a voice he had not heard himself make since his voice had broken. Sneaking into lectures was one thing; he dreaded to think what would happen if he somehow erroneously wangled extra tuition or something equally undeserved.

Or at least, Sebastian had not wanted to think of that _then_. He had thought of several creative variations of such circumstances in the heady days since.

Professor Moriarty had reluctantly dismissed Sebastian with the air of something powerful toying with his prey. It made Sebastian a bit fearful and a _lot_ giddy. The Irishman makes him exquisitely nervous and _ohhh_ , Sebastian likes it very much indeed.

Sebastian continues to think of his obsession as he readies for work ( _not_ the kind that requires his barista uniform) and the entire journey there Moriarty is all Sebastian can think of. Every tailored suit, every scalp of dark hair, every pale, expressive hand… Sebastian sees fragments of the captivating man everywhere. Reminders.

Sebastian's job is equally the best and worst place to be distracted by a vivid imagination. It is easy enough -sort of- if one has the required temperament but it's hardly… Well. Whether or not it is enjoyable is largely connected to how messed up an individual you are. In Sebastian's case… he supposes the answer to that would be 'considerably'.

Although he wouldn't say he enjoyed it. Or rather he would, and might even get tipped for it, but he wouldn't _mean_ it. Like the many nineteenth century women who used a pseudonym to pursue the lifestyle they desired, a life filled with the pursuit and _expression_ of what they loved, so too does Sebastian labour under false personas to support his ability to chase his own desires.

He is supporting his own love of the arts. He is a poor writer bowing to unpleasant yet necessary social pressures to ensure his survival.

He is George Eliot. 

He is deluding himself.

Sebastian knows this and takes little comfort in it, so he gets on with things as though he is waking up in a waterlogged tent or indeed trying to erect shelter in a storm. He is a dreamer yes, but he is also a practical young man. One does not bemoan his circumstances, he knuckles down and tackles them. Change comes from one's own diligent efforts.

Nothing is easy, and even the best things have an element of unpleasantness about them.

Sebastian knows it simply will not do to pass his earning hours with a silly smile on his face so he does his best not to think too much of the Irish professor called _Moriarty_.

The young man does his best to while the time away attentively but there is only so much dutiful behaviour a besotted, bored, hormonal Sebastian Moran can manage. Sebastian distracts himself with fantasies of the fascinating, captivating professor.

Fuelled by his earlier experiences, Sebastian imagines he sees the man in the crowd. As he flits back and forth from his duties and makes unwanted conversation he imagines that heady, hypnotic Irish burr.

Had Sebastian paid better attention he might have spared himself some dubious markings, but it won't be the first time he has to wear clothing to class that camouflages the angry red rings from mouths he could have better occupied.

He's sore though. Tired from the regular use, and his other job, and studying, and training, and the sleepless nights obsessing about a man who can perform alchemy with numbers, Sebastian is so _tired_ and it is making him sloppy. He is not paying enough attention to keep himself out of situations he is mostly capable of avoiding, and adding those bruises to the aches of training too much and eating too little and simply not letting his body _rest_ … well…

Sebastian needs to take comfort in _some_ form of distraction. It isn't exactly harmless, but then, what pleasure truly is?

Nursing a few spectacular bruises on his hips and sporting enough crumpled notes to pay a fortnight's rent Sebastian is quite ready to leave. He intends to go home and spoil himself by frittering away electricity money on a blessedly hot shower to soothe his sore, tired body.

Perhaps he will even go to bed early. If he forgoes his morning run tomorrow he can catch up on the reading he needs to do for class.

Although Sebastian's times have been slower recently and his CO is going to notice that sooner or later. He probably shouldn't skip the run.

He _could_ actually study during the period he has recently spent on Mathematics and Philosophy.

Ha, no. Things are not _quite_ so desperate yet that Sebastian is willing to risk his favourite part of the week.

Sebastian amuses himself wondering what it would be like to meet Moriarty outside of lectures he technically has no right at all to attend.

Even in a place like this.

A flush rushes up Sebastian's chest as he imagines walking into Professor Moriarty here. The Irishman could devour him with his eyes and Sebastian would not mind at all if the devil chose to berate him on his presence in this place of ill repute.

Funny how even with his muscles as screaming and miserable as they are Sebastian does not mind the thought of a bit of playful, possessive chastisement. He aches to be touched. Touched in a way that… fulfils him in a way nothing but those stolen lectures do.

Still. A cuddle would be nice. Sebastian is quite certain he could never fall asleep around the bewitching professor but right now Sebastian is certain he wouldn't say no if the Irishman took one adept look at him and sent him straight to bed for _rest_.

Sebastian's imagination is so strong and his sleepy need for comfort so great that as he leaves he finds he can almost hear Moriarty's voice.

Only… Not _almost_.

Sebastian can certainly hear an Irish accent. Can't he? The blond turns and assesses his surroundings.

His stomach flops in shock when he sees the man of his daydreams. _Here_ of all places.

Sebastian's pulse races. What does he do? Is this _real_? Is he hallucinating from lack of sleep or..?

No. Sebastian's never seen the Irishman dressed like that before. Professor Moriarty always dresses smartly but this new suit is particularly impeccable. And he's not wearing Oxford colours.

The Irishman is not trying to fit in. He looks respectable, eying the people around them with open distaste and superiority. What is he doing here? Oddly, the people around Moriarty seem unnerved by his presence. They move out of his way nervously.

Perhaps they sense what a captivating devil he is, or are intimidated by his hypnotic qualities. Sebastian can hardly blame them. The Irishman can make his knees weak with a look.

Oh God, what if the professor _sees_ Sebastian here? Does he know what this place _is_? The blond reaches up to cover the bite marks at his throat self-consciously and his sweater rides up to expose some of the red-purple-blue-black marks on his hips.

Sebastian freezes. Moments before he was terrified of being discovered here by Moriarty and was burning with infatuated curiosity to know what had drawn the hypnotic man here.

Now Sebastian feels ice burn his insides. His fingers tremble as he sees a beautiful woman sashay over to the Irish lecturer and greet him with familiarity. _Physical_ familiarity. She is all smiles as she touches Professor Moriarty's arm and leans in confidently to kiss the fascinating man's face.

 _He lets her_. Sebastian watches in increasingly breathtaking disappointment as his crush briefly embraces the woman before sliding a practised arm easily around her slim waist and leading her away.

Sebastian cannot move at first and his heart pounds desperately as his befuddled senses try to process whether he even _wants_ to move.

What would happen if the professor saw him?

Would Professor Moriarty approach? Would he bring the attractive woman over with him or would he detach himself to stride over?

Would he be cross with Sebastian for witnessing him here in this moment?

Would the Irishman be concerned as to why Sebastian is here?

There is little doubt what young men like Sebastian (not that there really are many young men _quite_ like Sebastian) frequent this particular establishment for. It is not a secret, for the community or even the Oxford fellows. It has always been the traditional underbelly and old money has always protected it from being chased on elsewhere.

But Professor Moriarty's Southern Irish accent is not a decayed thing absorbing Oxford or indeed British slang into itself.

Has the dark-haired man been here long enough to learn the nature of this place?

Moriarty looks his way and it is the motivation Sebastian needs to spin around to face the couple with his shuddering back. Apparently he does not want Professor Moriarty to approach after all. What would Sebastian say to the man anyway?

Sebastian moves out of sight and risks another glance at his obsession, and the woman accompanying that exquisite creature.

She is so striking. Her expression is smug as though she unconsciously _knows_ she has won and her upturned nose crinkles as she turns her head at something amusing Moriarty says to her. Her eyes sparkle as she sneeringly replies with what appears to be a playfully haughty response.

She glides across the floor in the Irish professor's steady arm. Sebastian wonders at their closeness and wishes the pair would leave so he might break free of their spell and run to the gents' to be sick.

Sebastian is so close to tears when he leaves that he does not notice the professor turn back to look at the space the young man had been standing mere moments before.


	5. Can You Make Me Bark Too, Sir?

Sebastian burns with jealousy although he knows he is being ridiculous to do so. He has hardly been betrayed however much the ache in his gut tells him it.

Professor Moriarty barely knows him. Knows Seb so thinly that in fact he does not know him at all. They have barely exchanged words and Sebastian tells himself that the professor would be hard pressed to pick him out of a crowd.

Even if the bewitching Irishman is the only one Sebastian sees amidst others whether the captivating man is there or not.

God, but it stings. Sebastian has been pouring a lot of his waking (and unconscious) moments into fantasies that the brunet could mean something _better_ in his life. An excitement or escape perhaps from what is -however much Seb chose and continues to choose it- a tiring life.

Foolish as it is, Sebastian longs for something in his life that he does not have, and the captivating, knowledgable, authoritative Irishman seemed like the closest Seb had to a potential answer. It's not that Sebastian lacks authority or intellect in his life either: he has the army and his studies for that. He has a great deal of structure.

But an overwhelming power in his life that draws him in and makes him quite enjoy his helplessness? Sebastian does _not_ have that. Clearly.

It confuses him that that woman he saw with the professor did not seem as equally in awe with her companion as Sebastian so overwhelmingly was. ( _Is._ ) She seemed comfortable and self-assured. She radiated a similar energy to Moriarty.

Sebastian hates them. How can they shine the way they do when he himself is… Well. The adjectives he has for himself are not pretty.

'Not pretty' is also a fairly accurate description of his body at the moment. His red-purple-blue-black bruises have scattered into purple-blue-green-yellow constellations that have spread down the tarnished, golden bridges of his hips into the barely more private parts of himself beneath his jeans. Had Sebastian's haircut there been less drastic he might have had more to cover the shameful things, but he has little patience with attempting to bleach himself there to match the stiff curls nearer his ears.

His throat is in a pretty sordid mess as well and he has had to suffer the indignity of having the tender, mottled, bloody thing on display in the gym. He hasn't showered there for days in an attempt to hide everything else, and he couldn't bear to shave for three days because of the nick he had allowed his neck to find itself in.

He couldn't hide it when wearing his barista uniform and got a right bollocking for it too, as if it had been somehow consensual. Like he'd _asked_ for the ugly, painful thing.

Sebastian has pulled on a turtleneck for class today. The wool shines from being overworn and neglectfully cared for (washed and ironed too often at the wrong settings) and worst yet it strains at Seb's pecs and upper arms from his continued growth.

He really will need to suck it up and buy some more, better fitting clothes soon. Some of his peers already consider his tight attire a cocky proclamation of his lack of morals, and it is only so long before the 'manwhore' jibes mean not just _slut_ but rather more accurate terms.

Sebastian tries not to pull at the neck of his sweater even though it rubs uncomfortably at his bruised throat.

If he has any sense he will put his obsessive crush upon the dark-haired professor behind him and focus on his actual life. He is so stressed and tired recently that he's practically _begging_ to be collapsed by illness and a week off from all of his responsibilities is all it would take for not only his studies but his _life_ to be in the toilet.

He cannot, must not and _will not_ let that happen. Sebastian buckles down and tries to study instead of heading in painfully early to get to that addictive lecture that starts before _the one he busts his gut to pay for_.

Sebastian is entirely unsurprised when he throws his belongings into his huge bag and busts his gut some more just to get to that damned unnecessary class.

He hates himself for it.

Apparently Professor Moriarty is none too impressed with him either, because as Seb slides into an empty seat in the lecture hall about fifteen minutes late the short Irishman barks out, “This course has _eight_ lectures per week and you only ever deign to attend one of them; the _least_ you can do is be punctual.” 

Sebastian swallows as his face and chest burn with a mixture of shame, resentment, and more of that _ridiculous_ sense of betrayal.

He clenches his fists -much bigger than _Moriarty's_ \- and feels himself tremble a little with anger (at himself as much as the dark-eyed bastard) as he snatches big bag back up. Moriarty's entirely right: _he shouldn't be here_.

Even if that's not exactly what the man said.

Sebastian is mentally ready to storm out of the crowded room but cannot resist making eye contact one last time with the oblivious devil. Professor Moriarty's raised eyebrows make Sebastian feel like a petulant brat and the embarrassment makes him spit with frustrated anger. “ _Te futueo et caballum tuum_.”

Essentially, ' _fuck you and the horse you rode in on_ '. Sebastian is uncertain what makes him blurt out the insult in Latin, perhaps he is subconsciously guilty about lashing out and does not want to be understood, or maybe he's just trying to show off.

Sebastian wholly does not expect Moriarty's reaction.

The lecturer looks strangely coolly collected, despite the icy obsidian glint of his eyes, but his voice cuts out across the packed room with glacial authority. “SEDE.”

 _Sede_ being Latin for _'sit'_ or, in the tone the Irishman used, ' _Sit the FUCK down before I do something you'll regret. _'__

__Sebastian finds his bottom falling into his seat without even being aware of his brain sending such a direction to his limbs. He is struck dumb by the sudden loss of the traits he is known for: bullishness and volcanic pig-headedness._ _

__He blinks and stares warily back at the demon lecturer. Professor Moriarty gives him a very stern look indeed that to Sebastian's humiliation has his insides squirming (although he does not dare so much as fidget). Something in that gunshot of a command has Sebastian unusually cowed._ _

__Professor Moriarty nods in receipt of the blond's submission and at break-neck speed launches back into his lecture. Those students who had been directing sidelong glances at Sebastian swiftly return their attention to the front. Sebastian's cheeks feel screamingly hot._ _

__He tries to focus on the class. It's a struggle and it takes Sebastian a few moments to realise the slides behind Professor Moriarty are blurry because of unshed tears in his eyes. The recognition makes the blood finally ebbing away from his face race right back. Sebastian is sometimes, humiliatingly, an angry crier despite how much he never wants to give anyone that satisfaction._ _

__Right now Seb has the horrible feeling that he's not close to tears because he's angry. Sebastian is frustrated and ashamed and upset because he deserved the brief telling off; it _stings_ because his crush liking a beautiful woman pales in insignificance compared to Moriarty finding him a naughty little fool._ _

__Sebastian self-consciously blinks away his tears and tries not to feed his sulk. He knuckles down and tries to respond attentively to the knowledge Professor Moriarty imparts to the class._ _

__Sebastian is almost starting to calm down when the brunet leaves some questions to muse over up on the screen and takes a sheet of paper up to Seb. Sebastian casts his eyes down and swallows as he accepts the register._ _

__“Good to see you are at least prepared enough to attend with a writing implement,” the Irish lecturer drawls. In that accent the chide almost sounds like a purr. Or perhaps Seb is just that messed up._ _

__Sebastian takes a breath, his clumsy fingers tightening. This would ordinarily be enough to provoke him into an argument and bewitching or not, this man is..._ _

__“Less of the attitude, little boy,” the lecturer warns, recognising Seb's feelings even though he hasn't said a word._ _

__Sebastian swallows and looks at his desk. Professor Moriarty places a pale hand on it like it has all the right in the world to be there, and Sebastian gets the message to look the heck up._ _

__The Irishman's eyes are perilously somber and Sebastian feels his chest flutter as he makes out shreds of amber and flame orange amidst the ordinarily umber-black tones. Of _course_ the disapproving stare of this powerful presence is enough to make Sebastian ache for that hand on him._ _

__“You do know how to sign your name?” Professor Moriarty scoffs._ _

__Sebastian feels heat rising up his neck and hopes it won't go higher than his collar. His tan skin is dark enough that not many notice when his ears turn pink but his cheeks are another story: if they bloom hot those intimidating eyes of Moriarty's won't miss it._ _

__Sebastian fumbles to pen the scrawl he has made up as his false signature. “Happy?” Seb asks churlishly, trying to sound tougher than he currently feels._ _

__“You can dial down that tone right now, and apologise,” the Irishman snaps._ _

__Sebastian swallows. He has never been good at saying sorry to authority figures._ _

__As the blond hesitates, Moriarty arches a dark brow. “Or should I ask you why you haven't handed in a single requirement yet?”_ _

__Great. Now he was getting a telling off for not doing his homework._ _

__Sebastian keeps his chin tilted upwards defiantly (well within optimum distance for grabbing and kissing, not that he's thinking about that, _at all_ ) but drops his gaze to the side. “Forgive me,” Seb mutters._ _

__The words feel jagged and cumbersome on his tongue, but they don't change the lecturer's challenging expression a jot. Sebastian gets the message and _burns_ as he adds, “Please forgive me, _sir_.”_ _

__Moriarty does not say thank you or otherwise politely acknowledge the apology. Instead he leans just close enough to make Sebastian sweat (and feel most of his blood race traitorously south) and strictly intones, “Stay behind after. You and I need to have a few _words_ , don't you think?”_ _

__Sebastian presses his lips together as the horror he feels at the possibility he won't be attending any more of these classes is thoroughly discarded by the tingling he feels below his naval. He is grateful for the desk to shield himself and his messed up, raging hormones from view._ _

__Professor Moriarty raises his brows pointedly. He is clearly awaiting a response._ _

__“Yes, sir,” Sebastian mumbles in as respectful voice as he can reluctantly manage._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Classical Latin, the word 'equus' is used for a horse, and 'caballus' (from which comes the accusative singular, 'caballum') is used only by poets. As a literature student, I figured Sebastian would use the phrase more aligned with emotion than technical accuracy.
> 
> Of course, I have a much more limited understanding of Latin than someone like Sebastian, so it is entirely possible that there are / will be grammatical errors there.


	6. Show Me Your Teeth

Sebastian cannot concentrate at all after Professor Moriarty's threat (promise?)

“You and I need to have a few _words_ , don't you think?”

It is enough to elevate Sebastian's blood pressure and quicken his breathing. There is a pounding in his ears and ignoring the adrenaline rushing through his body is only making his fingers shake.

Sebastian tries to calm his breathing and think about anything else to ease his excitement / trepidation, but nothing works. If anything his senses are sharpened and seeing the commanding, dark-haired professor more clearly than ever before is certainly not helping matters.

Sebastian squirms and fidgets in his seat. He's so desperate for Moriarty's attention but not like this. Part of Seb (the part not straining painfully against the metal fly of his jeans) is scared silly about the dressing down he is about to get. There is little doubt in Sebastian's mind that he has to get kicked out of Moriarty's classes for this. Oxford lecturers certainly don't have to put up with mouthy students when so many people are desperate to get in.

Wait. Moriarty's _talking to_ will be directly after this lecture. In the room Sebastian is _supposed_ to have a two-hour lecture for his nineteenth century lit module.

Well that's not good! Anyone early enough will see him with Professor Moriarty receiving a well-deserved scolding, and they'll question why, and if Moriarty discovers he _isn't_ actually a Maths and Phil student… Wait! _What if they kick him off of his English course too_?

Sebastian suddenly feels sick, and sort of dizzy. He cannot and must not destroy everything he's worked so hard for in this _stupid_ way.

At least the sudden, horrible realisation has put paid to Sebastian's issue with his uncomfortable trousers. Or mostly has, at any rate.

Sebastian looks around. His heart is hammering. He is going to have to get out of here.

The blond rapidly gathers up his belongings and holds his bag in front of himself to hide his fading arousal. Sebastian does not dare glance back towards Professor Moriarty as he all but throws himself towards the doorway and through it.

He expects the Irishman to call an admonishment after him but it does not happen.

Sebastian swallows with difficulty and glances at his surroundings as he tries to make a plan of action. What should he do?

He could hide out in the toilets until his legitimate lecture? But… what if Moriarty waited in the lecture hall for him? Or came looking for him in the toilets?

It's no good: Sebastian is going to have to go. He feels terrible. He hates to miss class but he simply cannot risk getting caught. If Professor Moriarty speaks to his actual lecturer… No good will come of it.

Sebastian runs a hand through his hair. Ordinarily the cheap bleach job makes it a little dry but right now it's damp with sweat. He's actually properly stressed.

Plan. Come up with a plan.

He's due at his shift in the coffee shop in a few hours. He could go there early, get changed in the toilets there, splash some water on his face, calm the heck down, and see if he can grab an extra couple of hours onto his shift. They're busy in the afternoons so it's likely he'll be allowed to start before his scheduled time. He's not on lock up tonight so even if he can't pick up extra hours going in early will mean an early finish. He can then go on Moodle at home and catch up on the slides he missed and message his friends for their notes.

Yes. He'll be fine.

He just won't think about how pissed Moriarty is probably going to be and absolutely won't think about the chest-crushing _disappointment_ of not being able to attend future lectures by the fascinating Irishman.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that what can go wrong generally will go wrong, in Sebastian's experience at least. However, as he pulls off his too-tight jumper and washes his face he has no idea just how things could possibly get worse. He grimaces at his appearance in the mirror, rubs his sore neck for the umpteenth time, and pulls on the boring teeshirt that serves as his uniform. He wears it and washes it so often that the lettering spelling out 'BARISTA' over his shoulder blades is faded and cracked.

Sebastian goes about his duties and largely gets away with any mistakes he makes with orders due to his broad, dominating stature and rugged handsomeness. Some giggling teenage girls leave a rather large tip whilst staring openly at his savaged neck and whispering behind their hands.

Sebastian drops the next customer's change when it seems the dark-haired Professor Moriarty walks through the door.

Seb dives down to retrieve the coins and wonders whether he has been seen. His heart pounds and he can feel a prickle of sweat break out on the back of his neck.

He's got to be imagining this, right?

Sebastian reluctantly straightens up and hands over the money with a polite apology. 

No one is standing by the glass doorway. The rush is dying down.

The next and only customer takes the place of their predecessor. Sebastian swallows.

“I'll have an expresso and an explanation,” says a familiar Irish voice crisply.

Seb heaves a breath and looks over his shoulder. The owner of the establishment has been in today covering for their sick manager. The boss is a nice enough old woman, rather grandmotherly but strict and pass-remarkable.

Sebastian catches her attention. “After this order do you mind if I take my break early? It's gotten quiet.”

She looks between Sebastian and the brunet opposite him with pursed lips. She can clearly tell something is afoot but merely grants agreement.

Seb thanks her and makes the coffee ordered. He expects to almost burn or scald himself, or spill something, or get the order wrong, but instead the blond is eerily precise. He's normally good under pressure: he's had enough practise at cadets, and Scouts before that. But this isn't a waterlogged food tent threatening to be washed away or being woken in the small hours by faux explosions. This moment feels far more pivotal. Seb thinks he is in shock. 

Moriarty hands over the money before Sebastian can read off the price.

The Irishman heads over to a discrete table away from the busier seating area and jerks his neck pointedly for Sebastian to follow. The expresso in Seb's hands keeps them steady but the strong smell aggravates the churning in his nervous stomach.

“Aren't you going to ask how I knew where to find you?” the lecturer asks.

Sebastian swallows. His frozen panic is starting to reappear as silently urgent anxiety. “I… don't know. How?”

The professor curls his pale hands neatly around his small cup. “First year. The course covers _elements of deductive logic_. Do you remember?”

Sebastian casts his pale eyes down wondering whether he has been caught in his lie. The neck of his teeshirt feels damp against his skin at the back. “Not really. Um, sir.”

Moriarty nods slowly. Deliberating. “I saw your teeshirt in your open bag. I recognised the uniform.”

“Oh,” Sebastian says.

“Year One and Year Two are up to ten lectures a week so by third year you shouldn't be finding attendance difficult,” the Irishman says. As Sebastian looks nervously for an answer Moriarty surprises him by continuing, “Let me guess: you're working all the hours God gives you to support yourself, and you're _still_ barely making rent. Would that be right?”

Sebastian feels thrown. “N… Not far off,” he says quietly.

The dark eyes on him give him chills. Professor Moriarty frankly comments, “It's no wonder you always seems lost in class when you're missing seven lectures a week and all tutorials. I haven't seen you weekly for philosophy, _or_ fortnightly for mathematics.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian says. It's much easier to say this time. He wonders whether to confess. He expects he would find those words much harder to find or voice.

“Just how far behind are you?” the lecturer asks. His voice is still somewhat stern but it has softened.

Sebastian feels even more attached to his addiction than ever when Moriarty softens his frown like that. Seb knows he could tell the truth and perhaps should, but he's not _ready_ to. He doesn't want to give this up. Especially when the brunet he has obsessed over for so long is merely an arm's length away.

Not even yelling at him.

Seb considers the question. He could to an extent follow the basics _supposedly_ built upon in Year One (algebra, analysis, calculus and probability) and as such some of the core pure maths he understood (algebra). He also understood metric spaces a little. Complex analysis was beyond his ken. The foundation mathematics (set theory and logic) he understood _in theory_ but floundered with in reality.

That's what Sebastian tells the hypnotic man sitting across from him. And nothing else.

Moriarty nods thoughtfully and leans back in his chair. He takes a sip of his dark coffee and simply says, “Alright.”

“Alright?” Sebastian repeats dubiously.

“Alright, I am going to offer you some private tuition. We'll get you to the level you need to be at,” the professor says.

Sebastian looks at him feeling perplexed. The prospect of spending _more_ time together is glorious, but Seb certainly does not deserve it. Sebastian bows his head and mutters, “Shouldn't you punish me?”

The Irishman shrugs and takes another small mouthful of expresso. He savours it for a moment, swallows, and then says, “Time was, you'd have gotten your arse caned for every class you missed, _and_ for your tardiness. I dare say you'd have been sleeping on your tummy after an outburst like this morning's and quite probably be close to being expelled.”

Sebastian's mouth feels dry. He has no idea how to respond. He shifts a little in his chair to hide the part of him which _does_ have an opinion on how to 'respond'.

Professor Moriarty gives him a smirk that stops Seb's heart. “That being said, I could take off my belt and bend you over this table, but it wouldn't really _solve_ anything, would it? You'd still be behind, and stressed, and missing classes. What you need is practical _help_.”

Sebastian swallows with difficulty, all wide eyes and confused pulse. The images those words put in his brain make him feel quite lightheaded.

He mustn't accept. It isn't moral. Seb doesn't need _help_ … or at least, not _tutoring_. He is a liar, and a fraud and he needs… He needs to confess. Now is the time to look this addictive devil in those captivatingly dark eyes and say, 'It's not the maths I stay for. Sir.'

Only Sebastian cannot. He is in such close proximity to the enigmatic professor, close enough to smell the man's aftershave, and see the diffracted slivers of different hues in the man's eyes, and see the bounce of the man's Adam's apple when he breathes or swallows. The pair of them sitting at this small table are close enough to _touch_. Sebastian cannot possibly confess, as in doing so he will ruin this.

Still, Seb knows he does not deserve the extra attention. He lowers his head and miserably comments, “I don't know where I'd find time for extra tuition.”

Professor Moriarty nods softly as he considers this statement. “When do you normally study?”

“When it's quiet in here, mostly,” Sebastian says. He begins to feel a sliver of worry and holds back the times he would usually go to the library. He cannot afford to give up the time he schedules for studying his _actual_ degree.

“There will be certain hours of the day that are always quiet, yes?” says Moriarty. “We could compare which ones don't clash with my timetabled hours and I could overlook your study here? You're bound to learn more effectively if I'm present to talk you through it.”

Sebastian swallows. He wants that. He wants that very much.

He doesn't deserve it.

Should he..?

Sebastian feels himself start to sweat again and shifts in his seat. He feels guilty, but desperate for this, and equally desperate for any contact afterwards.

The brunet stares at him with an intensity that makes Seb dizzy. “Are you alright?” Moriarty asks.

Sebastian does not know what best to say. Some aspiring writer he is, completely unable to find words at a time like this. The young man thumbs at his throat anxiously and hisses as he remembers it is still very tender to the touch.

Professor Moriarty puts down his cup carefully. “I did notice that,” he says dryly.

Sebastian blushes immediately and tugs up the round collar of his teeshirt as though it could possibly cover any of his savaged neck. “Sorry. Hideous mess.”

Moriarty raise his eyebrows. “Isn't that what you young things do?”

“Not intentionally,” Seb mumbles. He rubs at his hot cheeks uneasily and wills the heat (and the colour that goes with it) to go down. He blinks and looks hard at his lecturer's face for any signs of age. “Am I that much younger than you?”

Moriarty picks up his coffee again. For such a small cup he can certainly make it last. “I suppose not,” the brunet muses. “I've only been a professor here for a few years.”

Sebastian nods. “I thought you were young,” he says. The distraction makes the flush fade from his face but he is too wary of maintaining eye contact to notice how his embarrassment had lit the Irishman's eyes. Obliviously Sebastian continues, “You're so confident though. Commanding.”

Moriarty arches a brow. The blond before him strikes a commanding figure with his muscular build and impressive facial scars, even if the set of the lad's shoulder's and lips suggests a coltish shyness. “Haven't grown into yourself yet,” the professor muses. He shakes his head. “You'll get there.”

Sebastian rests his elbows on the table. “Even if I haven't even outgrown throwing tantrums yet?”

“Or running away when you know you've been naughty,” the Irishman adds with amusement.

Seb's ears turn pink again and despite the heat rising in his chest he does not feel as trapped as before. The brunet's piercing gaze seems softer, somehow, and the lack of ferocious intellect carving him to pieces makes the blond honest. “Overwhelmed,” he admits.

Moriarty leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out comfortably, becoming closer to Sebastian's own. “I noticed,” the Irishman drawls.

Sebastian looks down. “I guess you don't get a lot of that teaching at Oxford.”

“Meltdowns? More than you'd think,” the lecturer says. “Meltdowns quite like yours? Well no, but you have quite a mouth on you.”

Seb raises his gaze in mild suspicion. “Are you teasing me?”

“You don't think you were funny?” Moriarty asks.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Sebastian says. “Like, _livid_.”

“Oh, I _was_ ,” agrees the professor. “I had every intention after your little outburst of giving you a dressing down that would have had you in tears, and when you _disobeyed_ me,” the man hisses through his teeth wryly, “I could have wrung your neck.”

Sebastian rubs his face nervously. “Sorry. Sir.”

Professor Moriarty smirks and points to Sebastian's raw neck. “It seems, however, that someone else got there first.”

Sebastian presses his lips together. This time he manages not to blush, but only because all of his blood flow has suddenly been diverted elsewhere now that he is imagining the captivating Irishman being the one to have his teeth there. Seb feels giddy, but somehow still has enough blood reaching his brain to ask, “What changed your mind?”

The brunet curls back his teeth for a moment then gives a wry grimace. “I was… spitting cross. So I phoned home hoping for some commiseration and to be allowed to rant...”

Sebastian feels ice in his chest which chills down to his suddenly tight stomach. ' _Phoned home_ '. Seb has the vile feeling that his crush might be talking about the perfect, elegant woman he saw on Professor Moriarty's arm before.

The blond feels his fantasies fading away. He had gotten such a thrill moments before when Moriarty's _toes_ had been close to his. The gratification seems absurd now.

Still, soldier on, boyo. Sebastian blinks and realises mere seconds have passed. He opens his face agreeably, his abdominals clenching at the discomfort of feigning a lack of hurt, and asks, “What happened?”

Professor Moriarty chuckles and Sebastian's heart leaps then aches with the uncanny beauty of it. The brunet continues, “You can imagine my delight at being reminded that around your age I may possibly also have been… a bit of a handful.”

What a handful. Sebastian would _love_ to get to handle the indomitable presence before him, however poorly behaved.

Moriarty is oblivious to Seb's thoughts. The Irishman makes a devastatingly charming face and carries on, “Or, as I was none too gently told, a _brat_.”

“So I'm in good company then,” Sebastian says with a stiff smile.

The lecturer looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and nods. Seb feels his skin shiver with goose flesh, because (and the blond _hopes_ he is not imagining this) Moriarty's expression suddenly seems distinctly unprofessional.

The Irishman clears his throat and drains his cup. He looks away, and despite all the kind things the man said earlier, the dark-haired devil has never looked more like a wolf in Grandma's bedclothes promising he is not about to shred Sebastian with his teeth.

Seb likes it.


	7. The Key To Good Eavesdropping Is Not Getting Caught, But Not All Eavesdroppers Want 'Good'

The events of the previous day seem like something from the sort of dream that wakes Sebastian sweating and _wanting_ , but reality quickly reasserts itself. Regardless of distractions, he has a schedule that he _has_ to stick to.

Which means getting up early to familiarise himself with the studying he neglected yesterday. It means running for two hours and doing weights in the gym for three. It means a post-workout snack has to make do as a meal, and a cold shower has to suffice at home because he's still too blatantly marked up to shower at the gym despite the allure of warm water.

It means a 'shift' in the rather less than salubrious place Sebastian frequents when he doesn't have a specific job lined up.

Sebastian has heard before that he should count himself 'lucky' that he rarely has to hang around looking for employment. His reputation precedes him and there is certainly a market for his exceptionally toned body (the effects of overtraining and starvation, but he's young enough his looks aren't ruined by the combination yet). Some of the other young men use apps for arranging things, but Sebastian cannot gamble everything he has. It would only take an indiscrete screenshot to expose his lifestyle choices and squander his life chances.

Sebastian had much preferred the days when he could earn with his fists, but he cannot risk that sort of thing these days. Assault charges won't do his life plan any favours, and Sebastian would rather prostrate himself on all fours for the devil than have his goals proved worthless to his father, who is always waiting for the failure he will use to buy Sebastian's battered soul with.

Getting on all fours has become a familiar activity of Seb's, but none of the rich men (both his father's associates _and_ the nouveau rich, and Sebastian doesn't know which would ire his parent more) are quite impressive enough to be the devil. They are not by any means _good_ men, but they are nowhere near as intimidating as Professor Moriarty. _That_ hellspawn is a devil if ever Seb saw one. _Thee_ devil.

The irony of stalking someone who exudes a predatory air is not lost on Sebastian. His good sense is the true lost cause here.

Regardless of the lack of morality Sebastian infers from something underneath Professor Moriarty's veneer of mentorly kindness, the sight of the brunet that evening is enough to capture his breath.

It is unnerving having the clever man in Sebastian's territory. How much could the Irish devil uncover in a chance meeting?

How much of him might the professor _expose_? Giddy fear gives way to foolish excitement. Sebastian hovers out of sight and watches the captivating brunet take a table.

Seb takes a steadying breath. If he walked over and sat beside the Irishman in this setting his offer would be entirely transparent. What could the brunet be here for, if not the sort of thing Sebastian makes money from?

Before Sebastian can get up his nerve he sees the woman from before sashay over and take a seat at Moriarty's side. Seb feels a stab of disappointment but it is not so strong as the sudden irritation he feels at himself for his cowardice. Faint heart never won fair lady, and even if Professor Moriarty was hiding a soul like Elizabeth Bathory's Sebastian would still offer his underbelly.

The blond wonders perversely what the pair are saying to each other. Perhaps he has finally taken leave of the last of his senses, because it takes little time from having the thought for Sebastian to sneak closer. The rooms smell of old wood and decadence but he doesn't notice that as he tries to sift through innumerate seedy whispers for the conversation happening before him.

The woman is resting her beautiful face on an elegant hand. “We are _supposed_ to be concerning ourselves with business,” she says. 

American. Sebastian hadn't anticipated that. She sounds haughty, even mildly scolding (and _who_ would dare scold Moriarty?) but there is also something Seb thinks might just be a playful note to her polished voice.

Moriarty rubs his temples and attempts to smirk as he responds, “There will be time enough for that later. I am… uncharacteristically distracted.” His expression makes Sebastian swallow hard.

The brunet's companion looks at the occupants of nearby tables with undisguised contempt. “And a pale imitation is going to sate your taste for the real thing, is it?” she drawls.

“I'm not going to bed my student, Jamie,” Moriarty says archly. Sebastian flinches as though jolted with static electricity. He desperately wonders whether he is the student on their lips.

“I don't know why you're professing to be moral all of a sudden,” the woman scoffs. “Still. _Anything_ that will get the distraction out of your system so we can get back to work.”

“You're all heart, darling,” the professor snarks.

She gives him a sarcastic smile that as far as Sebastian is concerned does two things: it serves to accentuate her superb cheekbones, and reminds him of a deadly animal.

The woman sweeps her long legs out from under the table and stands. “I'll see what I can fetch you, shall I?”

“No rush,” the brunet at her side chuckles.

She rolls her eyes. “So. Stocky blond; bit of an attitude; takes a bit of slapping about?”

“Am I so predictable?” Professor Moriarty asks whilst Sebastian tries not to hyperventilate. The young man is uncertain whether this revelation is a divine warning or an invitation for eavesdropping on the bewitching couple.

The smirking woman -a blonde, Sebastian notes- departs with a graceful, hunter-like purposefulness. He is reminded of the goddess Artemis. He would probably be quite smitten with her were he not already captivated by Moriarty.

The thought lasts mere moments. It occurs to Sebastian that the woman -Jamie, Moriarty called her?- is off to find a whore. A whore matching his description. She is hunting for a whore of his description to help _Professor Moriarty_ get over the urge to roughly fuck a mulish, square-shouldered blond that the brunet teaches.

Sebastian has never been so frustrated and flattered and confused in his bloody life.

He could just saunter over and greet the Irishman, but Seb gets the feeling that won't quite work.

Jamie sashays back a while later looking like she has spent her time far more productively than Sebastian, who has done nothing but play the situation over and over in his head whilst Jim calmly nurses an expensive whiskey. The woman grins -a wicked sort of grin- and remarks, “Apparently there's someone exactly fitting your description working tonight; we just have to spot him. Answers rather promisingly to the name 'Basher'.”

Of course he would match his own _fucking_ description. Sebastian feels deep exasperation with himself and his tight jeans in that moment. He is surprised his pounding heart is not loud enough to direct the pair to his presence. Seb is certain the telltale noise would be audible from beneath floorboards.

He could always go. He could leave before either of them see him and simply not eat for days. It wouldn't be the first time…

Sebastian finds his feet fixed to the floor. The traitorous things foolishly won't let him run away when he so fervently wants to be caught by this dark-haired devil.

And besides, Sebastian really wants to eat this week. And not just an odd stale pastry from work. It's hardly a luxury desperately wanting to be able to justify spending money on something as simple as _eggs_ , damn it.

Sebastian is so busy feeding his temper he doesn't notice Moriarty look his way. The blond does, however, notice when the American woman lightly calls out, “Basher!”

Seb automatically looks over and meets the couple's gaze with a start. He is beginning to agree with what his father laments as his _remarkable_ stupidity.

Professor Moriarty stands swiftly and strides over, his glass forgotten. Sebastian's legs get the motivation they need to move and Seb quickly tries to hare away through the nearest crowd. He feels a forceful hand tightly grab his wrist and feels a thrill of danger as he is firmly spun around by the smaller man. Moriarty is stronger than he looks, and Sebastian's muscles seem to count for nothing when those dark eyes have him cringing inwardly.

“What are you doing here?” the brunet asks sharply.

Sebastian feels a surge of humiliation. He has to look away. He feels sick.

The professor's companion catches up with them. “Let me guess,” she says, “Basher here fits the description a little better than anticipated.”

“Sebastian,” says Moriarty. Seb looks at him immediately. He hasn't ever given the perplexing man his actual name lest the lecturer realise he isn't legitimately a Maths and Phil student. Although… if Moriarty knows, surely that means the assertion he wouldn't bed a student was a pointless one?

Jamie smirks at them. “How do you do, Sebastian?”

The blond casts his eyes down and swallows. He doesn't know what to say. All of his fantasies of similar situations skipped most of the awkward conversations and went right to undressing.

Sebastian does not notice when the spectacular woman turns her smirk to Moriarty. “Not going to let him go?” Jamie teases.

Sebastian looks up from the flooring and then at his arm. As the woman has pointed out, it is still within Moriarty's grip. The pressure is a little fiercer than Seb had imagined, but it is not entirely unwelcome. Sebastian fears that truth is apparent on his face. He wonders whether he ought shake Professor Moriarty off for appearances' sake, but he does not dare.

The brunet curls his lip. Fixing Sebastian with a forceful look, Moriarty jerks his head back at the vacated table before letting the young man's arm go. “ _Sede_ ,” he says.

Sebastian's stomach does an embarrassing little flip. His legs hear the threat in Moriarty's order and take Seb to a chair.

Moriarty sits down alongside Sebastian and Jamie gives them an amused look. “Does he answer to _cuba_ as well?”

“If I am not bedding him _you_ certainly aren't going to 'lie down' with him either,” the lecturer snaps.

Sebastian feels his heart flutter in his chest. Surely he is too young for a heart attack? Certainly his diet is too impoverished to encompass many fatty foods. Not that the blond can possibly think about dirt cheap noodles when the way Moriarty says he refuses to bed him sounds very much like a burning desire to do so.

Jamie laughs and reaches over to lightly graze her expensive nails over the tender skin of Sebastian's neck. The blond shivers and stares back at her.

“You've got to admit, Jimmy, your boy has potential,” she purrs.


	8. Throwing A Book Across The Room Only To Reread That Passage Over And Over

Professor Moriarty stares at Sebastian for a very long time. Sebastian feels himself go through perhaps every emotion he knows and even a few that are a first for him, before the bewitching brunet turns and regards the beautiful woman sharing their table.

“Jamie, darling, what does this young man charge?”

Sebastian feels his heart freeze and any heat that had once resided in it travels frantically south. If the devil wants to _pay_ him to do things Sebastian would possibly not be above begging him to do for free, well, it might not be romantic but it _would_ be practical.

Jamie regards Sebastian from beneath lashes painted in an array of metallic nudes with a skill the women he usually served skinny lattes to would probably happily sell their souls for. Sebastian wonders whether what he wishes to buy with his soul is any less ridiculous.

Jamie turns back to Moriarty and twists up her lips in a smile that does not seem altogether kindly. “He's not cheap. He's no Irene Alder, granted, but he charges considerably more than a Cowley urchin.”

Sebastian swallows hard. He isn't sure whether that works in his favour or not. The lecturer beside him looks nonplussed.

“Is that right?” Moriarty drawls, sounding almost bored but with that barest undertone of wicked teasing. He raises his dark eyebrows. “An expensive tart, are you, Se- _bast_ -i-annnn?”

Sebastian splutters softly at that, because _apparently_ being called a 'tart' in that accent is his new favourite thing, and the way Professor Moriarty has just said his _name_ … well… Seb had once had to write an essay on 'what's in a name?' but right then all he can think of is what might later be in _him_.

Jamie titters musically. It has a slightly cruel quality to it but she seems as though she is coming to Sebastian's rescue as she rebukes Moriarty, “Must you be so crass? It does seem the poor child is _shy_.”

Sebastian swallows and uneasily clears his throat. In his twenties he is far from a child, and yet he feels so very inexperienced and vulnerable being toyed with by this elegant pair.

Moriarty's eyes sparkle blackly, like deep water in the night. Sebastian is not blind to the danger, but he feels helplessly drawn as the lecturer teases, “Is that so, Se- _bast_ -ian? Are you… shy?”

Sebastian's heart pounds. Shy? Possibly, which would make everyone who knew him laugh, but all he knows is that his palms are sweating and his mouth is dry. He is far out of his depth and he knows it.

Eyes like a storm, the blond realises. Not just dark waters, no. Dark waters which could pull you, choking, to their _depth_. Seb is so flustered for a moment he isn't even thinking of what else he could be choking on, and then he has to look abruptly at the ceiling because honestly he needs to calm himself _down_.

“That _shy_ , huh?” Professor Moriarty murmurs.

Sebastian lowers his chin nervously. His bruised neck hurts as he swallows again.

Professor Moriarty reaches into his clothing and pulls out a dark leather wallet. “How much do you need to make today?”

Sebastian immediately becomes very aware of the table under his hands and the pulse in his fingertips. He cannot speak.

“Speechless, Basher?” the devilish Irishman mocks. “Did the last person to get their teeth on your throat sever your vocal chords?”

Numbly, it is all Sebastian can do to whisper a number before staring at his hands in softly burning humiliation.

Jamie repeats the number cheerfully at a more audible decibel.

Moriarty counts out a few high denomination notes and holds them across the short distance to Sebastian's shaking hands. The man puts the money down lightly and pats the back of Sebastian's scarred knuckles patronisingly. The touch feels like lightning.

The brunet stands swiftly. Sebastian's fingers reflectively scrunch the red notes towards him as he wonders exactly how much this money has paid for.

Jamie stands too. She is taller than Moriarty, drippingly elegant, and -if Sebastian is honest- that cruel, playful smirk of hers makes him like her more than a bit. He tries to even his breathing as he wonders whether the couple intends to share him.

He doesn't think he would mind it. He might remember it forever though.

Professor Moriarty lightly slaps Sebastian's cheek, drawing the blond's attention to him at once. “Eyes off of Jamie,” the professor scolds.

Sebastian catches a flash of white as Jamie bares her American teeth in vicious amusement at the brunet's side. “Yes, sir,” Sebastian says quietly.

It seems to amuse Moriarty and Jamie both.

“There's a good lad,” says Moriarty, and he taps Sebastian's cheek again. The warmth rests there for a moment against Seb's skin before gliding away. Sebastian keenly feels its loss.

“Now,” says Moriarty, and he takes Sebastian's chin in his grip to connect their gazes inescapably. Sebastian feels dizzy as though genuinely being stripped of his soul and flutters his lashes dazedly as he listens hard for what he expects to be a list of wonderfully, frighteningly sinful things he is going to do for the notes beneath his fingers.

It is not.

“What you are going to do, young man,” said Professor Moriarty, “is go get something decent to eat. Then you're going to catch up on your studies, for a few hours _only_. After that, you are going to put on your pajamas, change your bedsheets, and _get an early night_ , do you hear me? You need the rest.”

Sebastian flinches. He feels like he has been slapped, and not in a good way.

Professor Moriarty's lips curl delectably, as though he is savagely enjoying himself. Dark eyes sparkle again at Sebastian and the blond quite feels he is being toyed with.

Moriarty steps back and Seb warily gets to his feet. The professor grabs his bicep in a grip tighter than necessary. “One more thing, pet,” he whispers in Sebastian's ear. “You go near my Jamie without my permission, and I really will bend you over to give you a good taste of my belt. Understood?”

Sebastian feels his knees go weak. He nods quickly as Moriarty steps back.

The brunet frowns. His narrowed eyes flash in a way that makes Sebastian's tummy clench. “You can answer better than that,” Moriarty warns.

Sebastian clears his throat anxiously once more. “Y… Yes, sir,” he pants. 

Professor Moriarty smiles at him playfully. “Clever lad,” he says. “I'll be seeing you later.”

Jamie giggles and leans in to kiss Sebastian's cheek before Moriarty steers her away with lips pursed in an expression that is only half amused. Seb is left standing at the table feeling utterly confused and frustrated.

Those bastards.

Sebastian folds the money and shoves it deep into the pocket of his tight jeans where it will not easily escape from. Moriarty and his companion both turn at separate moments to glance back at him and wink. Sebastian swallows and runs his other hand through his hair exasperatedly before he too leaves.

' _Get something decent to eat_ ,' Moriarty had said. Sebastian seriously considers it, but his budget is no different from usual. He is less time poor for once though.

Sebastian picks up some cheap stock and reduced vegetables on the way home feeling glad he has change of his own to use for payment. He doesn't doubt he'd be thought a thief thumbing through a stack of fifties to pay for this poor man's meal.

All the same, Seb feels kind of good cooking for himself in his cramped kitchen. There's a calming self-sufficiency to making something as simple as soup. The aroma of his dinner is comforting in the way only the truly hungry could understand.

Whilst the soup simmers Sebastian gathers his dirty laundry and changes his bedsheets. Moriarty and Jamie and the money play on the back of his mind but he pushes them away to focus on the sheer relief of having a tidier flat. He feels cleaner. He feels like he can _breathe_. As long as he doesn't think about the money.

Sebastian portions out a large bowl of soup for himself and puts the rest aside to store once cooled. The heat of the food is unspeakably comforting as Seb curls up against the arm of his worn couch with a spoon in his hand. He cradles the bowl against his chest on the shelf of his pectoral muscles.

Food. Warm food. _Real vegetables_. Vitamins. _Nutritional value_. Sebastian feels rich.

He drains the bowl and reluctantly considers what has paid for such frivolity. Sebastian presses his lips together in a line and carries his utensils over to the sink to wash quickly.

Feeling uneasy, Seb pulls out his money and puts it with the rest of his stash. He's used to waves of feeling dirty after work, but today feels differently. He mostly feels confused, and excited, and vulnerable. He is being toyed with and he knows it.

Sebastian gives himself a shake. What does it matter if he is being paid to be some plaything? He is doing exactly what he wants to do with his life. The money is helping pay for it. He is winning here.

Sebastian drifts over to his stack of course reading and grabs the topic of his next assigned essay. He carries it over to the fading light of the window and goes through the pages with a highlighter. He does not let himself get distracted until he has finished the rest of the book. He will start writing up the bones of his essay tomorrow.

Sebastian yawns and stretches. Only a streetlamp outside lights his flat by the time he has finished. Bedtime, he decides, drifting through to his bedroom.

' _Put on your pyjamas_ ,' Moriarty had said. Generally speaking, Sebastian only wears pyjamas to bed in winter, when he also pulls on as many other layers of clothing as necessary to keep out the bite of bitter coldness.

The thought of being told to _put his pyjamas on_ makes Sebastian feel like a little boy. In any other situation, he would probably hate it. It would probably make him angry and argumentative and there is _no way_ that he would actually even consider obeying.

And yet.

And yet… Sebastian calls himself all manner of names but goes through his drawers and pulls out some well worn plaid flannel. He sits on the floor and runs the thick fabric through his fingers skeptically.

Eat your dinner. Do your homework. Do your chores. Put your pyjamas on and get to bed early like a good boy.

Sebastian bites his lip. It has been a long time since he has been thus told anywhere other than cadets. He's always been a bit too physically developed and emotionally mature to attract the attention of men who might baby him.

Sebastian feels shame warm in his stomach at the humiliation of it. He has been perfectly capable of looking after himself for _years_. He isn't some wet-behind-the-ears little teenager with Daddy issues and…

Well.

Sebastian hates himself very much as he shucks off the day's clothes and pulls on the cool, brushed cotton of his nightclothes. They feel soft and comforting against his skin.

Sebastian feels more than a little ridiculous. He channels some of his frustration into crumpling his dirty clothing and throwing it in the direction of his laundry piles.

There. He's wearing his damned pyjamas. Sebastian grips his triceps irritably and steps towards his bed.

He cannot help the smile which softly lights his face as he regards his clean sheets. He's been meaning to change his bed in forever and simply been too tired. A clean bed feels like a luxury.

Sebastian pouts and gets into bed. He reluctantly admits to himself that this is far from torture. It's really pleasant in fact. Even if… _Especially_ if the bewildering, handsome Irishman commanded him to do so.

It occurs to Sebastian belatedly that he failed to have the presence of mind earlier to ask Moriarty how he knew his name. Se- _bast-_ i-annnn…

The way the dark-haired devil manipulates his lips and tongue to say the word is surely sinful. Sebastian swallows hard.

So he didn't get stripped and made the chew toy of the rich couple today. Sebastian bites his lip and feels his heart rate race recklessly as he thinks on what he thought Professor Moriarty and Jamie might do to him. 

Sebastian turns scarlet and his calloused hand goes to his waistband of his own accord.

_'One more thing, pet,' the storm-eyed devil had whispered in Sebastian's ear. 'You go near my Jamie without my permission, and I really will bend you over to give you a good taste of my belt. Understood?'_

Sebastian does not want to admit aloud or otherwise how much that thought privately thrills him. He rather thinks both Moriarty and Jamie know it.

Seb also gets the nerve-wracking feeling that the tall seductress Moriarty spends time with has every intention of pursuing Sebastian despite the Irishman's clear warning. Sebastian grimaces desperately and throws his head back to look at the stained ceiling as though he has any power to stop himself now.

That look in Jamie's icy pale eyes made it clear she has no intention of giving Sebastian up gracefully, and his pounding heart tells him that the way she winked goodbye suggests she is _quite_ looking forwards to Professor Moriarty's reaction.

And Moriarty had winked too…

Sebastian curses himself for a fool and swiftly lifts his hips to thrust down his waistband. He trails his hand to himself and supposes that if that Irish devil wants to set him a bedtime and bend him over for a sound belt whipping, well…

It's certainly enough to get hot blood racing to his groin. Sebastian has to throw his free hand to his mouth to capture the chuckle as he realises his clean sheets won't be this way for long.

He gasps and strokes himself firmly. If he's thinking about Moriarty's reaction to treating his sheets in this manner, well… Sebastian gets the feeling Moriarty's not above thinking of _him_ either…


	9. Beyond The Hellenic Ideal

For all Sebastian and his aching, exhausted muscles certainly enjoyed his early night, in the grand scheme of things it doesn't help much. He has far too much to do, and far too little time in which to do all of it to the standard he would like to.

He's falling behind where he should be with his essays by now and his coursework is not faring much better. He's not _failing_ exactly, but Sebastian can see with panicked clarity just how easily his steadily declining efforts might snowball.

He is distracted; that is true. With a memory like that of the other day (which even now has the power to make Seb _shiver_ ) it is hardly surprising that Sebastian is struggling even more than usual to keep up in class lately. 

Nonetheless, Sebastian cannot blame his worries on the hypnotic Irish devil or the beautiful, smirking woman on Moriarty's arm.

Sebastian is overwhelmed and out of his depth. He cannot keep up with a degree he wants to pour his soul into when he is trying to adhere to a gruelling fitness regime that leaves his body exhausted and there are his two jobs (one of which he is aware ruins him emotionally and the other pays a mere pittance towards his bills). Maths and philosophy and flirtations are simply further complications to an already unsustainable lifestyle. Sebastian has always been inclined to give everything important to him his all but he is painfully aware that he is burning out.

He also has next month's rent to think of soon, and in a few months he is due to pay another small fortune in tuition fees.

Sebastian takes to bed for a day and wishes he could have more of a reprieve. Instead he studies the lectures slides of the classes he is skipping and tries to catch the heck up on the ever increasing mountain of hand-ins he needs to complete.

He barely eats. When it gets dark he takes comfort in a large cardboard pot of seasoned hot water with perhaps a twelve percent content of something purporting to be noodles (or cardboard-ajacent dross depicted on the packaging as looking entirely more noodle-like and a distinctly different colour).

Seb hugs his meagre dinner / breakfast and scribbles down notes as the water cools enough to eat (warming him as it does so). If Sebastian feels any sort of comfort in wearing his pyjamas as he does this (and he does) he tries not to think about it.

He's in his twenties for crying out loud. He is an adult. He has been supporting himself since he left Eton and he was balancing school and fitness and work long before that.

Of course, it is possible to be a functioning adult always _just_ on the cusp of failure and technically still be a functioning adult. 

Sebastian frowns and underlines 'pabulum' in his notes. The protagonist he is focused on values one character's input as intellectual sustenance worthy of consideration and emulation, whilst dismissing another character's guidance as insipid and terribly bland. It would be the undoing of all three.

Sebastian sighs and wonders whether he should bother adding to his notes. It's just more work for him to type up, which adds more and more time to how long the task will take to complete.

The next day Sebastian is quiet in his tutorial. In first year this would have been uncharacteristic of him but he is becoming less and less inclined to speak up these days. He's tired, and even on the days where he's gotten passable amounts of rest and has found time to sufficiently study the topic to be capable of original thought Seb does not feel that drive to make himself heard.

So far his lecturers are still hearing his voice in his essays. Part of Sebastian is afraid his voice will decay into nothing the harder he tries to support a lifestyle where he is encouraged to have a voice of his own. It's certainly not something he had at home. Perhaps his father was right about keeping quiet and toeing the line. Perhaps Seb's aspirations are nothing more than the foolish entitlement of youth and he is finding things progressively hard these days because he is growing increasingly further from the delusions of his childhood.

After the tutorial Sebastian changes into his barista uniform and heads to work. It's not a day that Professor Moriarty has arranged to drop in and despite his near debilitating crush Sebastian is somewhat glad of it. The blond's bag is heavy with required reading and he does not trust himself to sufficiently study with such an overwhelming distraction.

The lunchtime rush is worse than usual but after that the little establishment is almost dead. ' _We are punished for our refusals_ ,' Sebastian copies down, and is quite startled when a familiar pair of expensive leather shoes step up to his eye line. Nostrils suddenly full of Moriarty's cologne, Sebastian looks up at the lecturer then at the eerily silent bell above the door. Witchcraft.

“Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us,” the Irish devil purrs. A veneer of warmth in his drawling voice suggests Moriarty is amused, but there is something disapproving in his manner that instantly tightens every vulnerable part of Sebastian (excepting his most traitorous, but by this point just the thought of Moriarty is enough).

“You think if I had you once, I'd be done of you?” Sebastian asks bravely. He does not know why he says it, except that he hasn't had enough time to process Moriarty's presence to become characteristically tongue-tied.

“I entirely doubt that, but at your age what sins could you possibly have collected that you would yearn absolution for?” the brunet scoffs, unfazed. He strides over to the counter and orders a speciality blend of tea. “Two cups,” Moriarty says.

Sebastian blinks and obediently sets up a pot. “Is that all? Um, sir.”

Moriarty's lip curls. “Hardly, but no food for me.” He points at the most substantial sandwiches on offer. “You, meanwhile, are far too skinny. Pick something.”

Sebastian tries to arch an eyebrow as though he's not walking around a coffee shop with an instant semi. “That's a rather personal comment, you know.”

“And I dare say it will feel rather personal to you if I have to box your ears for that backchat,” the brunet replies languidly. “Do as you're told.”

Sebastian feels a thrill run up the back of his neck only to rush down and circle itself in his stomach. He lifts a filled baguette sheepishly and rings up the order.

Moriarty pays and swaggers back to Sebastian's table. He peruses Seb's notes as Sebastian carries over the tea things and his change.

Moriarty barely glances up. “Do I look like I want that back? Sit down and fill your belly like you were told, Sebastian.”

The blond takes a breath and casts down his uncertain gaze as he pockets the money and returns to the counter for his lunch.

“Do… you want me to pour that?” Sebastian asks. His mouth feels dry and his words uncooperative, but the devil across the table understands him well enough.

“No,” Professor Moriarty says without looking up. “It needs four minutes to be sufficiently brewed.”

Sebastian swallows. He should really know that, working here as he does. Perhaps at the back of his mind he did know, but it is hard to remember anything at all when Moriarty appears unannounced. Sebastian usually has days of anticipation to prepare for seeing the Irishman and that's always been inadequate to make responding to Moriarty's charismatic mesmer anything other than overwhelming. 

Sebastian meekly eats his sandwich for something to do. His roiling stomach wants none of it at first, but he's hungry, exceedingly so, and finds himself devouring the baguette soon after.

Professor Moriarty wordlessly reaches over for the tea set and fills both cups.

Sebastian curls his fingers around his steaming teacup and feels the heat of the liquid slowly spread through the thick porcelain. “I didn't tell you my name,” he says.

Moriarty glances up from the notes. His voice is dismissive as he replies, “No. You didn't tell me you were a literature student either.”

Sebastian loosens his grip on the hot cup. He does not know what to say.

“You're not in trouble,” the lecturer says dryly.

Sebastian looks up from underneath his lashes reservedly. “I'm not?”

The brunet takes a sip of his own scalding tea. “I'm not going to tell the university you're attending a course you're not paying for,” Professor Moriarty says.

“And the rest?” Sebastian presses warily. 

The Irishman puts his cup down. “We are going to have a little talk about your official attendance record, yes.”

Sebastian blinks in confusion. “I meant the… um...”

“I know precisely what you meant, but we can discuss that later,” Moriarty drawls. “You have been missing classes.”

Sebastian shivers and his normally argumentative nature fails him. “Yes sir,” he whispers.

“It is unacceptable,” Professor Moriarty asserts.

Sebastian feels his face flush with shame and pathetically finds that he might like it. He is embarrassed to be scolded, but the prospect of someone else taking control just for a moment makes his stomach twist in ways he is not familiar with.

Sebastian says nothing and the Irishman raises a brow. “As well you should hang your head in shame,” Moriarty says. “You are working yourself to death trying to support your learning and you're neglecting to turn up for the education that is costing you so dearly.”

Sebastian is surprised by the sudden tears which prick his eyes. He flounders, “I...”

“No excuses,” the lecturer says. “I recognise the signs of a student burning out.” 

Sebastian finds himself unable to speak and grips his teacup tightly.  
The bell above the door tinkles and a trio of customers come in. Sebastian turns to look at them and frantically blinks away his tears. He stands.

Professor Moriarty takes Seb's wrist firmly. “After your shift you'll come with me and we shall sort things out. Breathe.”

Sebastian feels a wave of gratitude that he is embarrassed to believe must show on his face. He mumbles a thank you and returns to the counter. 

The new customers take their orders to go. Sebastian returns to his table warily.

“Hush for a moment,” Moriarty says. “I'm sending a few emails.”

Sebastian nods and reaches for what is left of his tea for something to do. It smells and tastes distinctly comforting.

“Good boy,” the professor murmurs. Sebastian looks up instantly. Moriarty is not looking at him (or at least not directly) but Seb feels… noticed. Even as he shivers Sebastian feels a warmth in his chest even more affecting than the tea.

Sebastian bites his lip and shifts his weight self-consciously.

“Cute,” Professor Moriarty says derisively as he puts away his phone and leans back from Sebastian's essay notes.

The blond tenses and looks over at his hard work anxiously. “What? What's wrong with it?”

Moriarty's dark eyes look over Sebastian for just a moment. An intense one. “I was talking about you.” The Irishman then takes his teacup and leans back as though the conversation is closed. Sebastian knows he is being toyed with. He wants to mind, but his desperation for attention from this hypnotic devil is winning out.

Moriarty indicates Sebastian's notes. “It should be quiet in here for the rest of your shift. You should get working on that.”

Sebastian glances up at the brunet and wonders how Moriarty knows the footfall in the place at this time. The thought that the Irish devil might be checking up on him, keeping stalker-like tabs on him, disturbs Sebastian less than it pleases him.

Moriarty pushes Seb's notepad closer. “You write down the quotes as well as your notes. Time-consuming.”

“Easier than having to keep cracking the books open to check, and trying to keep them out from the library without getting them called back or charged,” the blond says.

“Born into the digital age I see,” Moriarty says.

“Poverty, remember?” Sebastian mumbles.

“That you _weren't_ born to,” Moriarty comments.

Sebastian freezes in surprise and genuine fright. His scar of course. His skin. His _accent_. Anyone could recognise him. Sebastian covers his face subconsciously in his unease.

The dark-haired Irishman reaches across the table and takes Seb's wrist, pushing Sebastian's hand down away from his face to sit flat on the tabletop. “Settle,” the lecturer murmurs.

Sebastian directs wide, pale eyes at the touch then at Moriarty himself. “I...”

“Shh,” the professor says. He indicates Sebastian's notes. “You have work to do.”

Sebastian can hear the beating of his heart in his chest as Professor Moriarty withdraws the pressure on his broad wrist. The blond desperately wants to say something, to ask for… anything… but the words fail to for in his mouth. Sebastian meekly pulls his pen towards himself and silently tries to focus on his work.

' _Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself..._ '

Professor Moriarty is eerily quiet for the rest of Seb's shift but eventually Sebastian manages to get into the mindset of studying and stops noticing their proximity. The remains of their tea covers the scent of Moriarty's cologne somewhat but not entirely. Sebastian is pushed to work hard in the hopes that Moriarty might not think poorly of him. Seb does not quite dare to hope for praise.

As it grows later Professor Moriarty is cast in gloom and makes no move to a brighter table. The devil seems made for shadows. Sebastian locks up slowly and wonders at the dark-haired Irishman's intentions.

Moriarty takes Sebastian's book bag as though Seb isn't significantly taller, broader, and more heavily muscled. It makes Sebastian's stomach clench with uncertainty. He trots over to the professor's side feeling an odd mixture of fearfulness and infatuation.

The dark-haired Irishman places his hand at the base of Sebastian's spine and if the devil notices how the unexpected touch makes Sebastian's skin break out in gooseflesh Moriarty does not comment on it.

The hand on the small of Sebastian's back seems to burn with casual possessiveness. It makes Sebastian's stomach do such flips that the blond barely notices what streets they take as Moriarty leads their stroll away from the coffee shop.

The Irishman does not speak and Sebastian feels uncomfortably akin to the silent dogwalkers they pass. Their surroundings grow increasingly green as they approach an affluent area of Oxford. Professor Moriarty walks them up to wide stone steps and slides his hot palm away from Sebastian's back as he climbs to the foreboding storm doors above them. Sebastian keenly feels the loss of the touch and feels a vivid discomfort at their surroundings. He is used to the ostentatious backdrop of the university but this residence is far grander than any professor's salary could ever hope to afford and it makes Seb wonder exactly how Professor Moriarty could pay for any of it.

“You're dawdling, Se- _bast-_ ian,” the Irishman scolds with eyes that glitter blackly in their teasing.

Sebastian swallows nervously and trots after the dark-haired professor. Moriarty leads them through a broad entrance hall that is brightly lit by large, ornate windows above. The remaining daylight gives the building an oddly friendly aura despite the gloomy, dark wood of the wall panels and intricately fitted floor.

A glass door to the side reveals an enormous room housing a gleaming grand piano and the sort of fireplace Sebastian remembers from his youth. Moriarty leads him on past into a room with a solid wooden door and a high, ornate ceiling.

Professor Moriarty deposits his outerwear on a carved coat stand. Sebastian warily does the same and looks to the dark-haired devil for what to do next.

Moriarty quirks his lips in a way that is far from reassuring and reaches for an evidently old cord which rings a bell. Sebastian recognises the system as being similar to the one in his family home. It is not a comforting familiarity. 

A smartly dressed man who is evidently staff appears promptly. He looks young for a butler so Sebastian supposes the man to be a valet or footman, but the unusually loose tailoring of the toned man suggests hidden weapons. Growing up familiar with guns, Sebastian looks for the lines of a holster and finds them.

These days you don't get a permit for that.

Professor Moriarty holds Sebastian in his gaze and seems to be assessing the younger man's ability to read the situation. Moriarty says nothing about firearms and instead addresses his staff member. “I should have had a delivery.”

The uniformed man nods briskly (and again Sebastian gets more of a military vibe) before replying, “Yes, sir. I'll fetch it at once.” He sounds Serbian.

Moriarty glances back at Sebastian. “You can sit. Lord knows you don't have the calories to waste standing.”

Sebastian gives a small frown. He's not used to being called skinny even though it is the truth. His height and arm circumference usually have people thinking he is anything but small, much less frail.

The professor rolls his eyes. “I'm not attacking your masculinity,” he says dryly. “Sit _down_.”

Sebastian reluctantly obeys. Moriarty joins him and places Seb's book bag by the coffee table.

“Now. I said we would have a talk about your attendance, didn't I?” the dark-haired Irishman says.

Sebastian swallows. He had indeed. Seb feels blood rush up his throat and heat his ears at the likelihood of a verbal admonishment. He is not a schoolchild.

Professor Moriarty gives Sebastian an amused, knowing look that flutters Seb's stomach. “You'll take a telling off if I give one to you,” Moriarty scolds. “You are _squandering_ your potential.”

Sebastian flinches as though struck. Hearing his worry spoken as a truth cuts him deeply, and being in such close proximity to his crush suddenly isn't fun anymore.

The lecturer regards him intelligently. “Now, now, there's no need for tears at this stage. I also told you we would sort you out, didn't I?”

Sebastian wants to retort that he is certainly not tearful (just) but he does not dare act up when the dark-haired devil is offering help. He looks at the Irishman warily. “How?”

Professor Moriarty indicates Sebastian's bookbag. “I have read your notes; you're not stupid. I am happy to come to an arrangement for your rent and filling your belly that allows you to adequately attend to your studies.”

Sebastian swallows. He does not know how to feel about any such arrangement. If Moriarty has changed his mind about bedding him will that put him in more or less danger than his usual dubious earners?

The Serbian servant's return lessens Sebastian's need to deliver an immediate answer. Seb watches as Moriarty stands elegantly and glides over to receive what appears to be a tablet.

“Are the downloads I emailed about completed?” the Irishman asks.

“Yes sir,” his staff agrees.

“Good man,” Moriarty says absently. He toys with the gadget's screen and murmurs, “Send in Geoffrey, would you Dragoslav?”

“Sir,” Dragoslav agrees. He leaves silently.

Professor Moriarty wanders back over to Sebastian and takes a seat with a casualness that Seb finds off-putting. Moriarty shows Sebastian the delivery and Sebastian realises it is not a tablet but one of those modern little computers that can be detached from its keyboard.

“I have taken the liberty of finding the list of your course texts and downloading them here,” Moriarty says lightly.

Sebastian blinks.

“I have had some apps pick out and highlight any significant quotes and passages, which you can review and pull directly into a word processing document. It should significantly cut down your time typing up your notes,” the brunet continues. “I can show you how to do so shortly. I have _also_ gotten you an app which allows you to photograph your written notes and convert them into editable text. This should give you much more time to focus on your arguments rather than copying down your notes.”

Sebastian feels thrown. It is an unexpected, overwhelming gift and he wants to accept it, but he fears how much it might cost him. He licks his suddenly dry lips nervously and comments, “That's… quite a fancy present. Feels like you're grooming me.”

Moriarty tilts his head like a magpie and regards Seb with glittering, dark eyes. “So?”

Sebastian feels his heart race at the utterly calm affirmative. A wave of cool fear chases the rush of warm arousal within himself.

Moriarty places the little laptop into Sebastian's large hand. “You're welcome.”

Sebastian traces the gift with slow fingers. “Why..?”

Professor Moriarty lightly slaps Seb's face with a mocking possessiveness that Sebastian tries not to show he likes. “I enjoy breaking in an entertaining little brat,” Moriarty smirks.

Sebastian blushes and hates that he likes it. “I'm a grown man,” he protests weakly.

Another servant knocks and waits in the doorway. Professor Moriarty stands but leans close to Sebastian's ear before walking away. In that moment the brunet murmurs, “It's not unheard of for grown men to desperately desire being bent over Teacher's lap for a sound bare-bottomed spanking… perhaps with his hard, wooden ruler.”

All blood in Sebastian's face drains southwards and he is quite unable to reply or even remember how to breathe. The smirk Moriarty wears as he approaches his underbutler, John Geoffrey, suggests he is entirely aware the impact his words have just had upon Sebastian.

“Geoffrey, I have a guest staying for dinner tonight,” the lecturer says calmly. “Can you please ensure the kitchen know?”

“Yes, sir, Professor,” Geoffrey replies. He looks to Sebastian and says nothing about the young man's pallor. “Do you have any dietary requirements, sir?”

Sebastian shakes his head swiftly. He is humiliated by his flustered demeanour and cringes against the couch in the hope that his own lap will not be noticeable.

Moriarty has of course noticed, but he does not mention it before his underbutler. “Young Sebastian could do with fattening up. Let the chef know tonight's meal should be nutritious and filling, but not too rich.”

Sebastian really wants to be offended by the _young_ Sebastian comment, but instead he feels oddly… coddled.

“Is that all, sirs?” Geoffrey asks. Moriarty agrees and dismisses the man. It is only then that Sebastian feels resettled enough to note Geoffrey's uniform is also tailored in a way that would accommodate a shoulder holster. Sebastian uneasily wonders exactly how Professor Moriarty makes his obvious fortune.

“Now, then,” Moriarty purrs. “I believe we were discussing what to do with _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from 'The Picture of Dorian Gray', Chapter Two. Lord Henry Wotton of course.


	10. How Can You Fit Blood On That Tongue When It's So Full Of Teasing Words?

Over the next few days Sebastian's head is filled with Moriarty's tempting propositions. Not one of them has even alluded to sex and Seb is uncertain whether to be disappointed or relieved by that fact.

Instead Professor Moriarty has sat Sebastian down and marked out a potential timetable for Sebastian should the blond agree to forego earning his rent in the usual manner and instead accept the money from Moriarty instead. Time once earmarked for earning is redistributed towards rest, Sebastian's degree, and… maths and philosophy.

Sebastian had thought that to be a euphemism at first, but the lecturer had then broken those times down into different aspects of the subjects and seemed quite serious about it. Those dark eyes had glittered ominously, but whilst Seb can usually recognise a lie, he cannot read Professor Moriarty's true motives at all. Sometimes the blond feels Moriarty is laughing at his expense, and other times Seb feels he is being led into a spectacular trap.

Despite supposedly giving Sebastian a few days to mull over the _suggested_ terms Professor Moriarty is of no mind to allow Seb to fend for himself at mealtimes. Instead the brunet has gifted Sebastian with a running invitation to dinners at Moriarty's home, and made it quite clear that the blond will find himself in trouble should he fail to attend.

Sebastian is frustrated with this insofar as he doesn't like being told what to do or being treated like he isn't a perfectly capable adult, but the truth of it is, he is nursing these dislikes with a (most likely unhealthy) odd fondness. He is thrilled to have an excuse to spend so much time in Professor Moriarty's company regardless of how much the Irish devil delights in teasing him.

Oh, how Moriarty adores tormenting him. The marks on Sebastian's neck have faded to green and yellow bruises barely discernible on his tan skin, but the Irishman finds plenty other things to remark upon. Sebastian is teased for his vowels; his table manners; his exercise routines; his propensity to _blush_. Professor Moriarty can make Sebastian flush for anything: a compliment; a chastisement; a joke… physical proximity. Seb loves and hates it all.

The lecturer is not alone in his flirty ridiculing either. Jamie has taken to joining them at the table over dinners which serves to make Sebastian feel not only underdressed but outnumbered. The woman's catlike grace extends to a cruel delight in toying with Sebastian like a cornered meal. She has an endless supply of dangerous comments and her bright, perceptive eyes narrow at Seb in a way that leaves him in no doubt that she can all but read his mind.

Moriarty sometimes fends Jamie off possessively but Sebastian is uncertain how much the pair verbally spar over him because of their interest in him, and how much is from their evident enjoyment in trying to prove themselves cleverer than the other. It is fascinating to observe their whiplike quips and intricate jibes; as a spectator sport it is quite thrilling. However, it does little to lessen Sebastian's infatuation with them both, and since they thoroughly enjoy snapping over him like a prime cut of meat they don't actually yet care to eat it is _painfully_ frustrating.

Professor Moriarty and Jamie delight in Sebastian's discomfort, and he doesn't doubt the close-lipped staff find his predicament an object of amusement also. A number of footmen have given Seb brief knowing looks before exchanging subtle glances with each other and he has a lingering suspicion that they are involved in some uncharitable betting pool about his position. Sebastian wants to hate them all for this but it is an odd thing to be so openly coveted. He has been praised before of course, he excels at sport after all, but there is something different in this attention. It is addictive, and periods of it are utterly intoxicating, but the source is inconsistent and confusing.

Both the Irish lecturer and Jamie the American seem fickle and at times downright mercurial, but the staff largely seem to be unfazed by it. Given the cut of their uniforms and the scarred knuckles of some of the servers at dinnertimes, Sebastian supposes the pair's robust personalities can be adapted to. Few of the staff seem to feel as utterly bewitched as Sebastian does and it truly perplexes him ( _particularly_ as Jamie's mere silhouette exudes 'murdered-my-last-five-husbands-whilst-wearing-vintage-négligées-and-enormous-diamonds' vibes). 

Nonetheless, it surprises Sebastian when Jamie doesn't appear one evening. It is the first meal she has failed to attend since Sebastian was first 'invited' for dinner. It is apparent she often follows her pleasure, and she clearly delights in both duelling Moriarty and torturing Sebastian, so her absence stands out to Seb. He wonders what could possibly have been more entertaining to her than testing her wits against Moriarty and teasing him, Sebastian, until his skin is red and warm with embarrassment. Perhaps the Irishman has finally persuaded the beautiful woman that Sebastian will not be her prize. Jamie's absence sets Seb's nerves tingling.

Professor Moriarty feels no such qualms. From the moment Biwott (a footman Jamie refers to almost exclusively as 'darling Uhuru') opens the front door for Sebastian and leads him through to the charismatic Irishman, Moriarty is in his usual wicked mood. He seesaws between somberly observing Sebastian with predatory, dark eyes and actively tormenting the blond with pointed comments that _frustratingly_ never seem to truly go anywhere.

Not that Sebastian is remotely bored of the taunting. He laps it right up and inwardly curses the little voice within that highlights his lack of Grundyism.

Today Moriarty seems particularly confident. Perhaps he has indeed won out over Jamie. He stretches back his neck whilst lightly rolling on the balls of his feet and searches through his record collection. Sebastian privately loves the opportunity to peruse the lecturer's eclectic taste in vinyl, but Professor Moriarty's openly good mood makes Seb wary. There's no doubt in Sebastian's mind that something behind Moriarty's dark eyes is sadistic, and everything in the Irish devil's pleased manner suggests Sebastian is likely to find himself tormented and flustered at any moment.

Moriarty turns and looks at Sebastian. The blond is wearing a lived-in old cadet teeshirt which is at least a breakaway from the same faded barista teeshirts with their cracked print that Sebastian has worn for most of the week. His cadet teeshirt clings to Seb's defined arms in a way he knows Moriarty likes.

“When are you going to come to your senses and stop playing hard to get?” the brunet asks.

Sebastian jumps and almost knocks down music that has survived for about fifty years before he came along. He cuts his fingers on a crisp, cardboard sleeve as he fumbles and immediately puts the thin wound in his mouth lest he bleed on Moriarty's expensive belongings.

Sebastian meets Moriarty's dryly amused gaze and uncomfortably sucks at his cut for a moment before mumbling (in a rather high voice for his obstructed mouth), “ _What_?”

Professor Moriarty's black eyes glitter and he reaches for Sebastian's wrist. The blond cringes a little at the touch and hates the feel of Moriarty's thumb on his pulse, the plainness of his sudden excitement a screaming sort of Braille. 

Moriarty's eyebrows raise in mocking amusement at Sebastian's state of agitation but merely tuts instead. “Clumsy boy. We should clean that up.”

Sebastian looks at his hand then back at the brunet. Moriarty seems very close. Sebastian can smell not just the devil's aftershave but something else underlying: bodywash or shampoo. He revels at it, perhaps surprised that Moriarty does not smell as though he bathes in the blood of innocents. Although perhaps this is what a soul-eater smells like.

Sebastian's voice is thin as he protests, “It's just a papercut.”

Professor Moriarty gives a playfully disgruntled hum. “It's a big one though: nasty, and likely full of _decades_ of dust and germs.”

Sebastian glances around at their surroundings helplessly. Every room he has been in smells of polish and cleanliness. Despite the size and age of Moriarty's property Sebastian has not once caught a whiff of the usual smells of neglect or damp common to such a building. “I don't think any dust would survive in your house.”

The Irishman curls his lips. “Few things do.” Blood is welling in the split of Seb's stinging skin and Moriarty dips his lips for a moment to lap away the bright red droplets. Sebastian goes absolutely still. The devil's tongue is just as warm as the blood. Seb is uncertain whether he is breathing when Professor Moriarty grins, gives the wound a deeply patronising little kiss, and tugs him by the wrist.

Sebastian splutters in his attempt to question the action.

“There's a first aid kit in the kitchen,” the dark-haired devil explains. Sebastian momentarily thinks of the armed nature of Moriarty's servants and feels surprise that there is not a kit nearer. Seb isn't entirely certain he believes the lecturer, but he lets the brunet drag him along, because whilst Sebastian might be physically stronger neither of them have any doubt that Moriarty has the stronger will.

The chef is discussing wines with Moriarty's butler ('darling Rupert') in the kitchen whilst a number of kitchen staff bustle about their business. John Geoffrey ('Geoff darling') is murmuring in a corner with the storeroom maid but quickly separates himself and finds something to do elsewhere as he catches sight of his employer. The young woman begins to roll her eyes, sets her jaw warily as she regards Moriarty, and swiftly finds herself something more productive to attend to in the larder.

Rupert and his colleague look to their employer attentively but Moriarty dismisses them with a flippant wave. “Brat cut himself.”

If Sebastian felt embarrassed being led by the wrist into a working kitchen that comment amplifies his humiliation at least twofold. He hears a kitchen maid mutter, “I'd cut myself too if I-”

Someone shushes her. Moriarty does not seem to hear her as he opens up the first aid kit with a flick of his free hand's deft fingers and Sebastian feels a quiet relief for it. The Irishman physically manipulates Seb towards a sink and casts an amused look over the blond as the running water on Sebastian's sore skin makes the young man grimace.

“There now, this can't hurt anything near what that last mark on your neck did,” Professor Moriarty teases.

Sebastian presses his lips together and feels perplexed when dark eyes glaze over whilst fixed on his healing throat.

Moriarty shakes his head as though to clear away unscrupulous thoughts (as though he has any others) and dries Sebastian's wet arm. Taking an antiseptic wipe from its packet, the brunet cleans Seb's cut and smilingly meets Sebastian's eyes.

“I'm afraid we don't have any cartoon character plasters for your finger so you'll have to be a brave boy and amuse yourself with a pretty blue one instead,” Moriarty drawls cheerfully.

The childishness of the glaring blue bandaid immediately explains to Sebastian Professor Moriarty's insistence on using a first aid kit from the kitchen. Sebastian feels mildly huffy for a moment but the tender way the Irish devil bandages his small wound lessens the blond's annoyance. The care feels rather nice.

Professor Moriarty pinches Sebastian's thigh lightly. It causes the blond's pulse to race again. “What do we say, Se- _bast_ -ian?”

Sebastian feels thoroughly conscious of the firm table beneath his bottom and the competent adults around him. “Uhm, thank you?” he mutters.

Moriarty tuts theatrically. “There's a wooden spoon just over there that I can better acquaint with your backside if you want to forget your manners, Se- _bast_ -ian.”

Seb turns a stony garnet before their audience. “Thank you, _sir_ ,” he responds in mortification.

The Irish devil takes Sebastian's ear and lightly tugs him down from the table. “Clever boy. I'm certain you don't want me to show the whole staff your bare bottom _this_ early on.”

Sebastian reluctantly gazes back at Moriarty as the professor leads him back through the house. “No, sir,” the blond mumbles. Part of him wants to beg the dark-eyed devil to stop _teasing_ and just bloody _touch_ him, but Sebastian does not quite dare.

“Now,” says Professor Moriarty, “we were discussing your sluggishness in coming to a decision. Or rather, your failure to admit your decision to me. So you sit down. Aren't you glad you don't need a cushion?”

Sebastian does not know what words to respond with so he settles for taking a seat. He stares at the floor with a mixture of panic and sulky embarrassment.

Moriarty knows it. He sweeps down into a chair beside Seb and crosses his legs comfortably. Despite his slighter stature the lecturer seems to take up far more space currently than Sebastian's tense form does.

“My suggestions are all perfectly reasonable,” the Irishman comments. “You need to be better fed and better rested, and you need sufficient time to focus on your coursework.”

Sebastian chews his lip slowly. “Yeah, but what's that going to cost me?”

Moriarty looks at him frankly but is not entirely forthcoming. He responds, “Little you haven't bartered before, and nothing before you are ready.”

Sebastian sighs and crosses his arms. It highlights the strong swell of them but Seb barely notices the way the brunet eyes tan skin against khaki green cotton as he asks the lecturer, “And what's the difference? If I've sold… stuff… before, why wouldn't I be ready now, unless you wanted more?”

“Oh, I certainly want more,” Moriarty replies, dark eyes fixing intently on Sebastian's face. Seb swallows as the brunet continues, “I don't just take someone to _fuck_. If I make you mine then I _own_ you. That is not something you should give away lightly.”

“But you think I will.”

“Of course you shall,” Professor Moriarty says with certainty. “That doesn't mean you should cheapen yourself by agreeing too easily or quickly, but in all likelihood your agreement is inevitable.”

Sebastian eyes the brunet warily. Squaring his shoulders, he asks, “And you're just going to be patient? If I act like a shrinking flower?”

Moriarty gives him a very odd look: assertive, honest, leering and kind all at once. “If you take the piss you'll find yourself doing a long stint on the naughty step, Se- _bast_ -ian, but I won't rush you.”

Sebastian swallows uneasily. He juts his chin upwards defiantly and hates how his cheeks feel hot as he responds, “What's this then? All you do is… tease me.”

“Yes,” the lecturer agrees without remorse. He raises his brows wickedly, “And I believe we _both_ enjoy it.”

Sebastian feels trapped by the truth. “...Yes,” he whispers.

“Then you are welcome.” Moriarty's mocking voice softens. “I have every intention of tormenting you, _as we both enjoy it_ , but I won't take you to bed until you choose to.”

Seb's belly twists hotly. Bravely he presses, “But if you own me..?”

The Irishman places both feet on the floor and looks at Sebastian with an intensity that seems queerly honest. “If I truly own you, your wants will be mine. You'll want it as much as I do, or I shan't want it at all. Everything or nothing.”

“...” Sebastian has no idea how to reply. The sudden ice in his stomach rippling along his chilled skin to his fingers contrasts with the damp flush of his neck. He almost feels dizzy trying to process the statements and yet his grip on the settee is so strong as to bely that weak sensation. Sebastian wants and fears what is offered, terribly so.

“It's a lot to take in,” Professor Moriarty says in warmly agreeable reasonableness, as though he isn't offering Seb a pact for his soul. The devil stands and offers out his hand. “Let's sit down to dinner and you can mull it over without my staring at you.”

Sebastian stares at the hand and does not dare take it. He feels breathless and has to lick his dry lips before he can respond, “You always stare at me during dinner.”

“Can you blame me?” Moriarty gazes at Seb's cadet teeshirt once more. His expression is playful but his voice is commanding. “You need to start dressing appropriately for dinner as this is going to be a regular fixture.”

“I look good in this,” Sebastian mutters bravely (he thinks he is trying to earn himself a light slap and is uncertain why). He tilts up his chin again feeling rather outmanoeuvred. “And I didn't agree to that.”

Moriarty commandingly takes the younger man's hand. “You'd look good in a loincloth; that doesn't make it suitable attire for dinner. And it doesn't matter to me whether you agree to dinner or not; I am not going to see you go hungry.”

Sebastian swallows at the touch and feels the reasonable set of Moriarty's shoulders is a magic all its own. This is not a reasonable proposition, Seb is certain. “Why not?” he asks. 

The Irishman's grip tightens uncomfortably on the tan wrist. “Se- _bast_ -ian, if you don't have a pressing desire to need to eat standing up I suggest you do as you are told and join me in the dining room.”

Sebastian stares at his captured arm and wonders what contact he can provoke by belligerence. He wonders how dangerous such disobedience might be. Desperate for a distraction, Seb asks, “Will your wife be dining with us?”

Professor Moriarty looks genuinely startled for a moment. As he blinks quickly Sebastian notices for the first time how thick and sooty black the devil's eyelashes are.

Moriarty clears his throat and the off guard expression melts away in an instant. “You mean Jamie.”

Sebastian does not understand why his question has been such an effective distraction. “Yes,” he agrees warily.

Moriarty fusses with an errant curl of hair at his temple with the hand not clutching Sebastian. “She… is not my wife, Seb.”

Sebastian barely notes the comment so affected is he by the way the hypnotic wretch has just called him _'Seb_ '. “Your girlfriend then.”

Moriarty bares his teeth in an unpleasant smile. “My _sister_.”

Sebastian chokes softly. “Your… _sister_?”

The Irish devil's fingers smooth along Seb's pulse and his smile becomes more amused. “Yes, my sister. You are not the first to make the mistake. Jamie and I do not bear much physical resemblance to each other I suppose.”

“Just in temperament,” Sebastian mumbles.

Moriarty raises an eyebrow. “Indeed. We are both competitive, and we do not gladly share our toys.”

Sebastian tries to twist out of the lecturer's grip. “I'm not your toy,” the blond states unconvincingly.

Moriarty purses his lips in amusement. “Aren't you,” he sneers. It is not a question.

Sebastian bites his lip. That tone of voice sets something fluttering in his chest… and then his stomach rumbles softly.

Moriarty gives the tan arm a tug. “If yours is cold when we sit down to eat I won't have it reheated. Come along.”

Sebastian is silent for a beat. The Irishman waits. Seb sighs and nods, allowing himself to be led through to the dining hall. He finds himself staring at his blue plaster throughout much of dinner. Whenever he looks up Moriarty looks tempted to eat him all up.


	11. Tug O' War

Professor Moriarty sends Sebastian home without a kiss goodbye. Despite feeling as humiliated, frustrated, and nervous as he does by the end of the evening, Seb burns from the lack. He knows he is being toyed with, and that he is being toyed with by someone quite predatory and possibly deadly, but some inexplicably treacherous part deep within Sebastian aches to be tortured even more.

He is mesmerized, drunk on the Irish devil’s hypnotic aura, and the lightheadedness Sebastian feels is surely a symptom of being drained of his soul. He is certain with every deep breath and dark smirk Moriarty feasts upon it. The shine of the devil’s eyes as Moriarty brought Sebastian’s bleeding wound to his lips only further confirms Seb’s suspicions.

Further proof of this is the way Sebastian's mind seems to go starkly blank whenever he casts his memory back to that moment, as though he is dealing with the aftereffects of shock or perhaps an unholy enchantment. Seb feels dizzy as though the professor drank closer to a pint than a mouthful.

Perhaps Moriarty did. Like many little boys, Sebastian was once easily infatuated with ghoulish tales and he remembers stories of psychic vampires and brain-eating parasites. It would not surprise Seb one bit if behind those glinting eyes and wickedly composed smirk Professor Moriarty was hiding (perhaps flaunting) a composition of blood and bone that was not quite human.

That being said, Sebastian has no real proof that submitting his soul to Moriarty is in any way inferior to his current method of taking care of himself. Excepting Seb's inconsolable self-preservation instinct (so certain of the dark-eyed brunet's devilish nature, and so exasperated by Sebastian's continued obsession with said devil) Sebastian worries … wonders… hopes… that Professor Moriarty may well be capable of looking after him better than he has so far proved himself capable of. Moriarty warned Sebastian he would be a mindless possession, but just one visit to the Irishman's house showed Seb that Moriarty ensures good care is taken of the possessions he has on display.

Sebastian rather believes the brunet is far less careful with those objects (and indeed people) who no longer capture the dark-haired devil's interest. The thought frightens Sebastian (more or less than the thought of selling his soul he does not know) and his good sense tells him (not for the first time) that he should drop the entire matter and go very far away.

Sebastian cannot do that. It seems that all he can do is replay his memories over and over in his head and tease himself horribly.

Seb finds himself playing with his cook’s plaster on the way home and throughout the night. He cannot remember the last time he was attended to for a wound so insignificant, and certainly cannot cast his mind so far back as to remember being given a kiss and a brightly coloured plaster.

Sebastian is not used to being coddled. Sebastian has very much been brought up under the stiff upper lip, rub dirt on it, don’t let them see you cry school of thought. His father is a cold man, swift to (unfairly, brutally) punish and rare to gift praise or affection. Seb’s older siblings all went to single sex boarding schools and the age difference between them is such that even had his elder brother been inclined to look after him they were not long in school together.

Sebastian is quite thrown by the affection gifted with the plaster amidst the teasing. He is certain the kindness must be false: a bribe to ensure his obedience. A performance. A devilish _ploy_.

And yet… And yet. And _yet_ for all those predatory, possessive touches and torturous, teasing threats… Moriarty kissed him (on his cut). Moriarty tended to him with kindness and without any need to do so. Moriarty fed him and continues to feed him.

The dark-eyed Irishman might well be (and almost certainly is) treating Sebastian with such care out of a manipulative need to control and consume. And yet it feels achingly akin to some perverse cousin of affection, and oh, how Sebastian starves for that. It’s not that he doesn’t have friends; he’s popular enough from his sporting prowess and general affability. Sebastian is not short of lads who would spot him a pint or loan him bus fare.

What Sebastian lacks, or used to lack, was someone who actively attempts to care for him. Moriarty fills Seb’s belly as well as the blond’s thoughts.

The puzzling lecturer is still in Sebastian’s thoughts as he tires of attempting to study and wanders past the Balliol music room. He can hear a superb pianist playing something classical with an air of utter confidence and a smidgen of brilliance. This is not unusual for Oxford students and Sebastian has on rare unhurried moments whiled away some pleasant time watching musicians practice. He looks in with subconscious curiosity, absently wondering who plays.

Sebastian stops and stares into the doorway, his footwear making a noise against the flooring in protest of his sudden pause.

Perfectly coifed blonde hair cascades down a narrow back that Sebastian is abruptly certain that he would recognize anywhere. The only skin he can see is the woman’s pale hands (ravishing the keys with such intensity she could well be possessed) and the bony nub of her nearest wrist disappears into a voluminous semi-sheer blouse.

Sebastian feels fright and a crackle of electric excitement and anticipation jolts his senses. So rattled with adrenaline is he that the music is swiftly clearer, his vision brighter and more precise. He walks forward into the music room without any true recollection of his proper sense.

There are a number of branded bags from expensive designers and boutiques bundled around the woman's seat. Sebastian is absently reminded of a fairy ring, and wonders whether consuming a supernatural being in a pleasurable capacity would count against the rule of avoiding eating fairy food lest your soul be theirs forever.

If Professor Moriarty is a devil perhaps Jamie Moriarty is fae. She has the tall, elegant build expected of a high fantasy elf and tresses which cascade in shining, effortless waves over her shoulders. Regal cheekbones gift her permanently smug face a grace which paired with her pointed chin gives her an aura of God-granted dominance over humanity. Or perhaps not God. Jamie Moriarty is a beautiful woman but her blessed attributes seep sin. Never has Sebastian more understood the word 'radiate.' Professor Moriarty's sister is easily as dangerous to be near as Marie Curie's notebooks.

Jamie does not turn around or slow her playing, but her amused lips spread wider beneath her cheeks. “I heard you missed me, Basher.”

Sebastian swallows hard. He clenches and unclenches his suddenly clammy hands and feels the spongey presence of his blue plaster. Seb wonders whether Moriarty has used its striking blue to mark his territory, and whether that places Sebastian in more or less danger.

Jamie finishes the piece flawlessly and turns around to give Sebastian her full, intimidating attention. Her poreless complexion would be the envy of every young girl posting glass skin challenges on their Instagram pages amidst photographs of the beverages Seb had served. Jamie Moriarty does not look like a human. Her skin glows not with a natural dewey-ness or a smear of expensive highlighter but instead something less tangible. Jamie Moriarty exudes a luminescence not unexpected in a Sir Joseph Noel Paton artwork and her eyes glitter with the knowledge of this.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asks without sympathy.

Sebastian blushes indignantly but cannot help but nod. Supernatural as her blood is, her presence strikes him mute.

Jamie tuts mockingly. “If you aren't going to speak, young man, I might force you to put your mouth to better use.”

Sebastian's annoyed pink cheeks turn a flustered garnet. He lifts his hands a little as though subconsciously warding off her offer with the display of his bound finger. However much Seb is drawn to this bewitching female he fears her brother the most.

She gives a bell-like laugh that has a cruel edge. It makes Sebastian's tummy quiver, clench then squirm as though she had done something far more publicly emasculating. She might as well have promised to pull down his pants for a spanking in a crowded room from the way Seb's stomach aches in such an oddly pleasant manner.

Jamie's upturned nose crinkles in superiority as her gaze reads everything about Sebastian's situation. She moves over on the piano stool to make room for him and commands, not in Latin for once, “Sit.”

Sebastian stares at her for a moment. He doesn't want to, even though he is drawn to her, because something about her fae-like dominance makes him afraid. She snaps her fingers crisply and it momentarily breaks the spell of his hesitance: he darts forwards to obey then wonders at his actions.

Jamie nods at him. “I was not stalking you, should you be wondering.”

Sebastian very much was, but he says nothing. He wonders if his tongue is paralysed because so much of his blood has absconded to his hot ears.

Jamie merely turns the pages of the sheet music in front of her. What was sat open before her earlier was not the complex piece she had played from memory. The precision of it makes Sebastian wary. He is certain she can play him as easily as her brother should she choose to. Certainly she makes little effort any time they meet not to mock him constantly.

So Sebastian expects she is plotting some ruse at his expense when the fae speaks.

“I am meeting my _brother_ later,” she announces. “He is occupied with some grad students at the moment, but he ought to be finished shortly.”

The woman snatches Sebastian's hands before he can process what she is saying.

“You play,” Jamie says.

Sebastian stares at his hands in her grasp revelling at the horrible excitement of the new touch then risks a glance at her intimidating face. “Not… so much anymore. I haven't practiced,”he says. His throat and mouth seem dry. He licks his lips nervously.

Jamie tuts and holds his hands in one of her own to lightly swat his knuckles. “It is such a sin to waste talent,” she scolds.

Sebastian swallows with difficulty. “I… I wasn't all that good in the first place.”

The blonde gives him an intense look he cannot accurately read. She lets go of his hands and indicates the bags behind her with a sweep of her wrist. Sebastian's gaze picks out a Saville Row bag based on the arch of her dainty fingers.

“A failing of yours in many areas,” Jamie Moriarty chastises. As Seb reels from the insult the woman tugs the fabric of his teeshirt. It is a touch that catches his breath with its intimacy. “It's about time you were suitably attired for dinner,” Jamie states.

Sebastian swallows. Her hand rests upon his skin but for a shred of fabric and the touch says things he struggles to put into words even within his mind. Her fingers seem to burn.

Jamie takes her hand away abruptly. “Play with me,” she demands.

Sebastian gives the hands she settles on the keys before them a bewildered look and wills away his flustered clumsiness in an effort to obey. Her words will ring in his ears long after the tune they play fades into the air.

The air seems thick with danger and promise as they sit together in front of the piano. Jamie does not shy away from touching and Seb feels disorientated by the press of her long, warm thigh against his own whilst she manipulates the pedal at their feet.

She smells strongly of perfume, hair products and privilege. Sebastian is not usually intimidated by such things due to his decadent upbringing, but he feels very much like a clumsy, ignorant child beside Jamie. His timing is terribly off and she wordlessly guides his hands with her own, comfortable enough in her ownership of him to do so without hesitation, and Seb is certain she only holds back her taunts because she believes him exceptionally inept.

Perhaps the air is not thick at all. Perhaps it is thin, and that is why it is so hard to breathe. He is so impacted he cannot focus at all on the music in front of them, the notes swirling and swelling across the pages like the dots that often swim before his eyes when he goes too long without eating. Blood pounds in Sebastian's ears as his lungs fill with the intoxicating scent of Jamie's thick, blonde hair. It's soft to the touch and feels warm from her body as it brushes his skin. Sebastian wonders whether he will ever get the smell out of his nostrils.

Sebastian stares at the bright blue twisting around his finger as he struggles to match Jamie's playing in vague accuracy if not in anything close to her glowing talent. The pressure on his fingertips reawakens the sting of his cut and Seb wonders whether this is his favourite devil's way of warning him to behave. 

Professor Moriarty might not need to mark Seb as his territory. Sebastian is much too intimidated by Jamie to not keep his hands to himself, even when the smirking woman handles him so firmly.

The song ends. Sebastian looks warily to Jamie beneath deferentially lowered eyelids for an indication of what to do next. He expects her to turn the pages of the book to another piece of music, thoroughly attack through mouth-wettingly pursed lips his poor playing, and order him to practise further.

Jamie surprises him by turning and smoothly rising from their seat. Seb watches the graceful movement of her body as she approaches her shopping bags and lifts the one she had indicated earlier.

She places it on the worn velvet warmed by her tight bottom (not that he'd been staring) (of course he had, and she didn't need her ability to read his mind to know it) and runs her eerily intelligent gaze over Seb.

“What?” he whispers.

Jamie reaches out commandingly and Sebastian flinches as she tugs at his clothing. He feels a chill that has no true correlation to his suddenly more exposed skin.

“You'll need to remove this,” Jamie declares.

Sebastian looks at her stupidly. The blood needed by his brain has been diverted south long enough that there is a shining patch spreading on his lap but his fae does not remark upon his crassness.

She taps a finger on his nose with an arrogant comfort in touching him that makes Seb's throat dry. “You are going to try on your clothing so I can ascertain I accurately approximated your size. If you choose not to do as you are told I will undress you, and we both know you will need a fresh pair of trousers if I do.”

Jamie's candid and accurate appraisal of Sebastian's situation makes him shiver as though she had run her expensive nails down his skin.

“We're in public,” Seb manages to weakly protest.

“Obeying my rules are far more important than being overly precious about Oxford's, don't you think?” Jamie drawls.

Sebastian swallows. He's rather attached to Oxford's rules. He has sacrificed a great deal to be here.

And yet his reply barely takes his efforts and dreams of graduating into consideration. The blond asks her, “What about your brother's rules?”

Jamie chuckles and something about her smirk causes Sebastian to instantly twist around towards the doorway. The devil thus spoken of, Professor Moriarty stands there with a cool smirk and hands resting in his pockets in a way that humans can make look casual.

“Yes, Jamie dear, what _are_ my rules?” the Irishman purrs.

Unperturbed, Jamie's pale eyes glitter in amusement. She runs one hand mockingly down Sebastian's front, making the blond intake breath sharply, then she snaps her grip around the hem of Seb's teeshirt.

“Share and share alike, brother, _darling_ ,” Jamie responds with a cool smirk.

Moriarty rests casually against the doorframe and crosses his legs. “Whatever happened to _'finders, keepers_ '?” he asks with an amusement that utterly perplexes Sebastian.

“I _did_ find him for you, remember?” says Jamie. “You wanted _Basher_ to help take your mind off of _Sebastian_.”

Moriarty grins frighteningly and stands again. He closes the music room door and Seb is suddenly entirely conscious of the obstructed exit.

“Mm, yes. _Naughty_ Se- _bast_ -ian was looking to sell his body, I believe,” the Irish devil purrs.

Sebastian feels his heart stutter for an uneasy moment. Jamie takes a firm grasp of his teeshirt and _pulls_. Seb's vision is entirely blinkered for a moment, then he makes an unsteady decision and allows the bewitching woman to tug away his clothing, leaving his chest bare.

He barely notices the chill due to the heat of the siblings' gazes.

Jamie throws Moriarty Seb's warm teeshirt and smirks when her brother catches it deftly. “If you insist on taking your time with him it's only fair that you concede the first go.”

Professor Moriarty grins teasingly. “I don't let my little boys galavant with disreputable types, and we all know you would eat this poor child _alive_.”

Jamie feigns a sigh, the truth of her amusement lighting her eyes. “I'll give him back to you a man. You'll still have plenty to play with.”

“You'd give him back with barely the marrow left in his bones,” Moriarty scoffs.

His sister shrugs. “I need to drain young men of their virility if I want to continue looking this good. Be glad I'm not threatening to _bleed_ him. Although I'm certain you would be ready to kiss him better afterwards.”

Sebastian feels a strong urge to clear his throat but doesn't dare turn the attention of the two wild creatures upon himself. He has some respect for his self preservation instinct still.

Professor Moriarty turns his gaze upon the blond anyway. “Cold, Se- _bast_ -ian?”

Sebastian follows the devil's line of sight and crosses his arms over his chest despite having grown up with no sense of shame in his male body.

Jamie reaches into the bag beside the blond and fishes out a shirt. She holds it out to Sebastian pointedly.

Seb takes it meekly and feels peculiar as he pulls on the new clothing. The Moriarty siblings watch him with a hunger he cannot help but enjoy despite the jolt of fear amidst his arousal.

They make him try on the entire contents of the bag.

Jamie has picked out an unreasonable amount of clothing and Sebastian's arms almost feel tired by the time he finally finishes his impromptu fashion show. Or perhaps he's tired from the constant rush of adrenaline and hours - _weeks_ of teasing.

Eventually the Moriarties take pity on him, but only because he has a class to attend shortly. Sebastian pulls his teeshirt back on in a rare show of defiance and cannot withhold the gasp Professor Moriarty forces from his lips when the Irish devil grabs him fiercely.

“Oh, we're not finished with you yet,” the lecturer warns.

Sebastian's heart is pounding too hard for him to think to squirm away. He looks over to Jamie and anxiously notes the predatory look she also wears.

Professor Moriarty pulls Sebastian close enough to kiss, but of course he doesn't. Sebastian wants to die from the frustration of it. He could count the lines patterning the lecturer's lips.

Sebastian is shocked out of his dreamy contemplation as he feels a sharp, hot flash of sudden pain accompanied with a loud crack that fills the room meant for good acoustics.

It takes Sebastian an oddly long time to realise Professor Moriarty has _smacked_ him. Seb can barely believe it, but the hot, vivid sting of his bottom is testament to the truth of it.

Moriarty's dark eyes sparkle. “ _That's_ for being a wicked little _flirt_ when you think I'm not keeping a close eye on you.”

Sebastian almost kisses him. He's never known embarrassment to give him confidence before.

Moriarty winks and opens the door.

Jamie hangs back to kiss Seb's cheek. “I'm sure you know to ask me to kiss you better when my brother finally pulls you over his knees for being such a pretty, little, _slut_ ,” she smiles.

Sebastian has no idea what to say, but he absolutely knows what he is going to be fantasising about tonight.

Jamie holds out his bag.

“Don't be late for dinner,” Moriarty warns.

The tightness of Seb's trousers tells him he is sorely tempted.


	12. You Call That A Fuss?

Sebastian finds himself deliberately walking past the music room over the following weeks. Sometimes Jamie is there; sometimes she isn't. Every time Seb wanders awkwardly into the room the captivating woman gives him a smug, knowing look and allows him to take a seat at her side.

Sebastian's proficiency with the lovely, old piano is improving. His ability to hold his own against Jamie and her flirtations is a development decidedly more slow. His confidence grows with each day he steps into that room, but every time Jamie teases him, or his nostrils fill a little too much with her perfume and the scent of her golden hair, Seb finds himself a flustered, stammering mess.

Jamie has taken to swatting his nearest hand, arm or thigh in sadistically amused rebuke whenever Sebastian falters with his words or his scales. His blood never seems to know whether to rush north or south, and he spends the time together in a perpetual state of fluttering, squirming stomachache.

Jamie has also taken to taunting him with the briefest of cheekbone kisses. They feel like hours of her sweet breath on his skin upon approach, punctuated by a pressure over so swiftly Sebastian cannot swear for certain that his fevered brain is not inventing them.

Her lipstick never stays on his cheek, but then it never gets on her teeth either.

It's a wonder Sebastian can manage any coursework at all, despite or perhaps partly because of his lapsed working schedule. He spends so much time with the pair of torturous siblings hearing and hoping for their purred promises of what they intend to do to him, _but they never do_. Seb is going quite mad with frustration.

Jamie and Professor Moriarty both ask him often whether he would like them to stop. Sebastian feels a rush of fear every time they do so even though he knows fine well that they only ask to amuse themselves with how he chokes and lowers his gazes only to look up into captivating, hypnotic, damned supernatural irises and find himself desperately admitting that he loves their attentions.

They laugh when it happens. It is a cruel, amused, tantalisingly affectionate sound whether in Jamie's high, strong, birdlike tones or Professor Moriarty's oddly lilting, gravelly burr. It drives Sebastian woefully insane. He dreams about their laughter.

He's almost sure either of them could tie him down and get him to the very brink of frustration without ever touching him, only chuckling at his clumsy, evident desire. Sebastian is under no illusions about whether or not he would consent to such a game.

Sebastian's head is filled with games the pair play with him, including those he has merely (yet repeatedly) concocted in his fevered little mind. He fantasises about them so much, and they do so many brief, outrageous things, that it is quite hard for Seb to keep things straight.

The first night Sebastian wore one of his new shirts Jamie warned him he'd be sleeping on his tummy if he dirtied it at the table. Seb was so out of his comfort zone and entrenched in his rampant imaginings that he foolishly responded with a glib, flirty response that he would _ordinarily_ only dare say when playing over his memories in bed with a teasing hand on himself.

Jamie had told him off for his impetuousness and ordered Sebastian to a corner of the large room whilst her brother looked on over steepled fingers with a small, interested smirk. Seb had flushed scarlet and widened his eyes helplessly at Jamie, who had stared him down and pointed elegantly over her shoulder.

She raised an eyebrow but not her voice. “If I need to count to three, Sebastian Moran, I shall pull down your briefs in front of the staff and give you such a sore bottom you shall still be crying during your last lecture tomorrow afternoon. Is that what you want, young man?”

Sebastian's chair had made an ugly sound as he hurriedly pushed it back and _somehow_ he managed to throw himself across the room to the designated corner on legs which seemed as stable and substantial as the dessert on his plate.

They left him there for the rest of the meal, managing to ignore him almost completely whilst still making the back of Sebastian's neck burn from attention.

He heard the pair move back their own chairs and stand.

“Biwott,” Professor Moriarty drawled, “do take young Sebastian's plate down to the servant's table. He can finish his dinner there tonight and see if it reminds him of his manners.”

Uhuru nodded and stepped towards the table. “Shall I have this reheated, sir?”

“Certainly not,” Jamie scoffed. “Bratty little boys need to learn their place. Naughty Sebastian here is lucky to be permitted to eat at all after his highly presumptive little comment.”

Sebastian could have willingly allowed the floor to open up and swallow him lest he die of his embarrassment. Instead, he had to shout at himself in his head to try to persuade certain parts of his anatomy to pay far less obvious attention.

He was not fully deflated when Moriarty sent him to follow his plate, and the smirk Jamie wore on her perfect face as she swept her unkind gaze down Seb's body made it known that she had absolutely noticed his discomfort.

Sebastian finds himself thinking solely of this moment during the lecture Jamie had warned he was lucky not to still be sobbing during, and Seb's distraction becomes a bit of a habit.

This does not go unnoticed. Sebastian's classmates question him about his dreamy, embarrassed inattention and quiz him on its origins. They debate whether a secret girlfriend or secret life are the source of his altered behaviour, and they take mirth in teasing him accordingly.

If they only knew the truth. Sebastian is glad he has not yet been spied with Jamie in Balliol's music room (by anyone other than the devil Irishman) much less when being treated like a toy at the siblings' lavish residence.

Sebastian is not known for being treated as a plaything. He is big and strong and willful; it would certainly be on everyone's tongue should his circumstances and preferences get out. Not that Seb necessarily cares too much what people think of him most of the time, but… he is far from his comfort zone. He does not know how to process his addiction to the Moriarty siblings' treatment of him. He thrills at their possessiveness and sexually charged taunts.

How could he possibly explain this to anyone else? People might understand if he looked frailer or acted less commandingly, but he's always been a robust and assertive sort.

The novelty of his situation is part of its allure. Although it is difficult for Seb to imagine anyone else having quite such an effect on him.

It's also utterly incomprehensible how Sebastian might ever again concentrate in class when carrying the knowledge that he is to visit the Moriarty home for coursework, dinner and exquisitely awful teasing.

After class Sebastian makes his way to said residence for supervised study with the dark-haired lecturer he is so captivated by. Despite the growing familiarity with the setting and the company Seb cannot help but feel giddy as he ascends the stone steps which lead to the building's prominent front door.

Uhuru lets Sebastian inside. The footman's knuckles are a vivid, risen pink in contrast to the darkness of his unscarred skin and Seb's tummy clenches for a moment wondering again how exactly the Moriartys pay their bills.

Uhuru ushers the blond through to a dark panelled study without the sly smile some of the other servants direct at Sebastian. It puts Seb a little more at ease, but the young man's nerve sing once more the instant he catches sight of Moriarty. The lecturer has spread out study materials in anticipation of Sebastian's arrival, and the Irish devil's dark eyes glitter unerringly in Seb's direction.

Professor Moriarty is serious about educating Sebastian. He has started Seb on first year stuff from the degree course the blond had repeatedly crashed, general philosophy and elements of deductive reasoning, things Moriarty insists any young man with a brain in his head should know. Some of this Sebastian somewhat enjoys; it seems to explain a little why the lecturer can read him so well. 

Frege's _'Foundations of Arithmetic_ ' Sebastian enjoys far less, but he gains a squirming sort of pleasure from the way his captivating lecturer quizzes him on the chapters and always seems to find him a little lacking. It makes Sebastian burn to please the man.

Moriarty watches him. The devil says nothing, but his eyes are not silent.

Sebastian swallows audibly. His mouth feels dry as he asks, “What?”

The brunet stays silent for a beat then leans back. His feet are stretched out comfortably, and Sebastian notes the contrast with his own, poised against the expensive rug as his fight or flight instinct tells him the Irishman is a danger to his body and / or his soul.

''It has been said the great events of the world take place in the brain,” the lecturer says. 

Sebastian looks at the pale, dark-eyed creature and nods slowly. His recent study of philosophy and maths makes the phrase sound far from out of place, and yet the way Professor Moriarty says it… he feels the devil is not talking about the coursework at all.

Moriarty's lips spread in a thin smile. “Ah, you know when you've been caught out, do you?”

Sebastian freezes.

The lecturer pins him with a look and says, “Do you want to tell me why I am unhappy with you?”

Sebastian's heart pounds and he stares back at Moriarty feeling quite helpless. “I don't..?”

The devil flashes forwards and snaps thin, commanding fingers around Seb's chin. “I do not like stupid boys, Se- _bast_ -ian. I am certain you know that.”

The blond swallows nervously. “You… mean m-meeting Jamie? Because we haven't kissed or anything! I-”

Professor Moriarty raises his brow in a way that makes Sebastian's mouth fall dry and silent. “Trust me, darling, if I catch you kissing my sister I shall not be this cross or disappointed. I really expect much better of you.”

Sebastian flashes the lecturer a confused look but inwardly he thinks he might know what the devil is talking about. It makes Seb's stomach hurt and he has to turn away, which is difficult to do with his face in Moriarty's hand.

“So you do know what I am referring to,” Professor Moriarty comments sternly.

Sebastian presses his lips together.

“I thought I made it very clear that you getting good grades is important,” Moriarty whispers.

Seb flinches and avoids the brunet's gaze. Professor Moriarty inflicts a slightly harsher pressure on Sebastian's chin.

“ _Imagine my surprise_ ,” the Irishman growls, “when I found out that your recent scores have been _worse_ than before.”

Sebastian's tummy makes a very big, very uncomfortable, immediate flip. His skin feels clammy and cold as he admits to himself that his grades _have_ been steadily dropping despite everything he wants to do with his life.

“Should I have taken off my belt and given you a good spanking instead of all I have done for you?” Professor Moriarty asks in a voice that makes Seb feel the most uncomfortable combination ever of aroused and sick. “I have been exceptionally accommodating and for what? I've spoken to your tutors and not one of them has told me that you have been attentive in class recently.”

Sebastian flushes, feeling overheated and uneasy. “Whose fault do you think that is?” he snaps defensively. “What do you think's on my mind all the time?”

Professor Moriarty lets go of Seb's face. The brunet's dark eyes flash ominously and he warns, “You had best control that tone of yours _this instant_ , little boy.”

Sebastian frowns and pushes away from the table. “I'm not a little boy!” he insists. “I'm an _adult_ and I don't need you to speak to me like this.”

“I don't care how you think you need to be spoken to,” Professor Moriarty retorts. “You had better sit down and start speaking to me with a respectful tongue in your mouth or I am going to start teaching you some manners before I deal with the mess you're making with your studies.”

Sebastian's frustrated irritation wobbles as Moriarty's lips shape the word ' _mess_ '. It causes tears to prick Seb's blue eyes and he feels something twist in his chest. It really hurts to hear that he is doing so badly in an area where he desperately wants to excel.

“Cry if you like, but we are going to have this discussion,” Moriarty declares. “If a little attention is enough to make you throw your future away-”

That does it. Scalding hot tears sting Sebastian's eyes and race down his cheeks. He stands at once and twists his face away as he turns towards the door.

“Sit down!” Professor Moriarty barks.

Seb shivers and considers obeying but his anger and his hurt make him brave or foolish enough to disregard the order. “Get lost,” he says in a thick voice. His fingers shake as he protests, “I'm not going to stay here whilst you tell me how worthless I am.”

Moriarty raises his brows before crossing his arms over his chest. “Is that what you think?” he asks in a dangerously slow, measured voice.

Sebastian steps towards the door. He's somewhat afraid to respond but more embarrassed for the handsome devil to see how upset he is. Looking up blankly at the ornate ceiling through blurry, wet eyes, Sebastian pushes open the study door quickly.

“You can have five minutes to take a breather and compose yourself, but then you're coming straight back here,” says the lecturer. “You are far too behind to waste time making a fuss.”

Sebastian somewhere finds the character to spin around and glare at his crush through a blatantly tearful gaze. “You call this a fuss?” Seb snarls. He reaches for a shelf and pettily swipes down a number of books. “You don't know anything.”

Professor Moriarty breathes in through his nostrils. “I suggest you step outside this second, Sebastian Moran, before you persuade me to stripe your bare bottom and send you to sleep on an empty tummy.”

The sensible part of Sebastian is inwardly screaming in fright, but he doesn't know how to back down now, and he feels overwhelmingly embarrassed and resentful. He storms out of the room and before he can really think things through he is headed to the front door.

Another of Moriarty's servants is coming down the stairs and gives Seb a concerned look before trotting over. “It is not time for home yet,” says Dragoslav. “You are eating first or Professor Moriarty is getting cross.”

“Fuck him,” Sebastian says peevishly. “He doesn't own me yet.”

Dragoslav catches Sebastian's arm as the blond reaches for the front door. “Did I lost you?” the Serbian asks. “If you are, er, ignoring rules, the professor is _punishing_ you...”

Sebastian bites his lower lip for a beat, gaze wobbling, then pulls open the door. “I don't care,” he says in a watery voice.


	13. Kiss Me, and You Will See How Important I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving you all fair warning that if you are the type to blush in public you might want to postpone reading this chapter until you're alone...
> 
> You're welcome.

Professor Moriarty steps out of his study with a scowl and appraises Dragoslav. “I heard the front door. Did my fool boy..?”

“I don't think he is wanting dinner,” the servant says tactfully.

Moriarty rolls his eyes. “I don't know why I bother. Damned idiot child. I should know better than to waste my energy on immature pretty boys.”

Dragoslav's plump lips curl at one corner and he pointedly directs his sparkling eyes at the polished floor. “You are saying it, Boss...”

The lecturer looks at his employee sharply. “Careful...” he warns.

Dragoslav makes a grimace and stays silent.

Professor Moriarty lets a breath out through his nose. “Did you…?”

“Of course,” Dragoslav shrugs.

“Good boy,” Moriarty drawls. He saunters to a nearby antique coat rack and pulls down a thick, navy blue bulk which transforms into a tailored silhouette when he slides it over his shoulders.

“Even less of child than blond boy,” Dragoslav mutters softly.

The professor raises an eyebrow at him.

“Woof,” Dragoslav says quickly, raising his palms in casual supplication. “I'll fetch your driver.”

Moriarty curls his lip and pulls out his phone. After prodding the screen for a few moments it displays a small, coloured dot which moves in a direction that does not surprise the Irishman.

He tosses his phone at his chauffeur. “We're following this.”

Meanwhile, Sebastian is oblivious to the tiny tracking device Dragoslav had pressed into the fabric of his sleeve. The blond lets himself into his scruffy, little flat and paces about in agitation.

The damned Irish devil was entirely right: Sebastian _is_ throwing away everything he has worked so bloody hard for.

The thought makes Sebastian feel tearful and sick. He has made so many sacrifices and endured such suffering, only to fail.

If Sebastian cannot pass his course, what then? He cannot become an officer in the British army without a degree, and there's never been a Moran male who had done anything else. Sebastian cannot fathom going back to his father to admit not only has he failed the literature degree he was so hotheadedly adamant about undertaking, but he has also come up short in comparison to every one of his male predecessors _ever_.

Seb starts to hyperventilate at the realisation. Being born to an exacting family and being gifted in many areas, Sebastian is not accustomed to failure and more so than his violent father's ire the concept scares him silly.

Sebastian sniffles and self consciously covers his face as burning tears escape from his eyes. _Stupid boy_. Professor Moriarty was right to call him a child.

Sebastian's face flames as he remembers how his shame and discomfort had caused his temper to flare and short circuit his thinking. He had not just escaped his devil's lair without leave but had brattishly crashed the professor's belongings from their shelf to the floor.

Why Professor Moriarty _hadn't_ taken off his belt and leathered Seb's bare bottom was beyond Sebastian's understanding, full grown young man or not. The blond had been sent to his own father's study often enough for correction to recognise the age and expense associated with such carefully bound books that only a supreme brat would mishandle thus.

Sebastian splutters as his panic rises again and catches in a throat thick with stifled sobs. He has ruined _everything_ , foolish little brat that he is. He fully deserves the good spanking Professor Moriarty referred to.

The thought makes Sebastian's squirming stomach twist assertively. The blond hunches over in response and rubs impatiently at his wet cheeks.

Desperate to be done with the day, Sebastian strides over to his bed and strips off the day's outer clothing, half-heartedly hoping he can cast aside his emotions alongside his shoes.

His pyjamas peek out from underneath his ineffectively smoothed pillowslip. Seb stares at them for a moment and his hitching chest slows to a mildly quaking near calm.

The memory of being told by Professor Moriarty to put on his pyjamas after that pivotal meeting jumps to the forefront of Sebastian's mind. Brat that he was, he had initially resented the order, but Seb knows that he found great comfort in obeying. Pulling on his flannel pyjamas as he was told made him feel safe and cared for.

Muted daylight seeps into the room and tells Sebastian it is early in the evening still. Much too early for a young man of his age to consider going to bed.

Except little boys who've been naughty get changed into their pyjamas early, don't they?

Sebastian swallows and picks up his bedclothes. The prospect of a non-threatening consequence to his poor behaviour untwists something uncomfortable in his abdomen. Sebastian fumbles with the soft, worn thickness of the flannel and pulls on the pyjamas. 

He takes a deep breath and smooths out the fabric and feels a little better. Sebastian grips the hem of his pyjama top and runs the soft stiffness through his fingers. The feeling grounds him in the comfort he takes from the clothing.

Sebastian takes a deep, shuddering breath. His chest feels achey from its earlier tightness and his throat feels sore from trying to hold in his snivelling.

He should take a cold glass of water.

Sebastian forces another deep breath and pushes his hair back from his forehead. He wanders out of his cramped bedroom to get the drink.

His gaze falls on the study materials littering his charity shop coffee table. The sight seems like a cruel reminder of Seb's failure and his steps falter as though dealt a physical blow.

Sebastian's eyes instantly feel hot and wet again. Moriarty said he'd thrown everything away. Made a _mess_ of everything.

Fright and overwhelming stress bubbles back up in Seb's chest and bursts forth in irregular, distressed cries. Sebastian stands in place and grabs his face, unable to contain the raw weeping that shakes his body and forces its way past his lips.

Sebastian cries hard. He cries until he can't see past his tears at all and starts to feel physically sick. Sniffling raggedly, Seb gasps for breath and sticks out his dry tongue as he pants. He feels exhausted. 

Sebastian stumbles over to the wall and presses his forehead against the cool stone. He closes his eyes in relief and promises himself he'll get that glass of water in just a moment.

That's when Professor Moriarty lets himself into Sebastian's flat.

The brunet's dark eyes glint as he observes Seb standing with a bowed head facing the wall. “I did tell you to only take five minutes,” Moriarty comments.

Sebastian whirls around with wide eyes. He does not live in the sort of area where anyone leaves their door unlocked and for a moment he believes the hypnotic devil has materialied from thin air.

Professor Moriarty takes in the sight of the younger man's reddened eyes and blotchy, endearing face. “You are lucky I'm not any of your neighbours,” Moriarty scolds. “I imagine you thought I'd come after you?”

Sebastian shakes his head quickly, too flustered to form words. Part of him is astonished to see the Irishman, and a small, relieved part of him isn't surprised at all. The relief quickly turns to alarm: the comfort Sebastian initially takes in seeing the brunet is swiftly overridden by the knowledge that Moriarty is probably intent on punishing him. Sebastian's poor tummy clenches again. This is all his fault for being a _stupid_ little boy.

“You're supposed to sob your heart out _after_ I've smacked you red raw,” Professor Moriarty says lightly. He locks the door behind himself.

Seb looks at the Irishman helplessly. “W-What are you doing here?” It's a foolish question, but it is the first one that manages to escape Sebastian's tight, anxious lips.

Moriarty raises a brow. “Throwing a temper tantrum doesn't get you out of anything, Se- _bast_ -ian. We still need to deal with the problem of your grades.”

Sebastian feels a flutter of reassurance but crosses his arms over his chest in defence against raised hopes. “I've thrown everything away...”

“Well that's just ridiculous,” Professor Moriarty declares. “Do you think I would waste my time chastising you for poor grades were it too late for you to improve them?”

Sebastian's breath catches. He almost sways on his feet as he asks, “You mean I haven't ruined everything?”

Moriarty pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment and sighs. “Of course you haven't, you _utter_ little fool.” He narrows his eyes at Seb. “And even if you had, Se- _bast_ -ian, it would certainly be _no excuse_ for your reprehensible misbehaviour, do you understand me?”

Sebastian's lips wobble as he struggles for words. “I… I'm sorry.”

“Oh, you're going to be,” Professor Moriarty says sourly. He casts a contemptuous glance around their run down surroundings and sternly declares, “I am _not_ in the habit of chasing _silly_ little boys through the least salubrious streets of Cowley regardless of how often I invite them to eat at my table.”

Sebastian swallows. “I… I think I might have blown things out of proportion...”

“Oh, _you might have_ ,” Moriarty scoffs. “If you didn't look so endearing standing in the corner with your pyjamas on and those wet eyelashes I'd have boxed your ears by now.”

Sebastian's eyelids flutter. Some part of him feels complimented, but the blood rushing to his face leaves no doubt that he is mortified to be seen thus.

Professor Moriarty smirks and crosses closer. After giving Sebastian's beat up couch a look of suspicion and distaste the lecturer takes a seat and beckons the blond. “Come here, Se- _bast_ -ian.”

Seb presses his lips together nervously. “You going to, uh..?”

“ _Uh… punish you_?” the Irish devil mocks. “You're damned right you're in trouble, but I'm not going to make you pull down your bottoms _just_ yet, so do as you're told.”

Sebastian's face turns from pink to red. As he approaches Professor Moriarty and gets pulled down beside the Irishman firmly, Seb's red cheeks drain to white, then surpass pink to return to red then flush harder still at purple. Moriarty chuckles softly at the show.

“Now, you fully deserve to sweat after your naughtiness today, but I don't think you can take much more,” the lecturer notes. “I have assessed the areas where you need to improve, and I have reorganised your schedule to allow you to do so.”

Sebastian eyes him dubiously. “Even if we scrap maths and philosophy, I don't have the _time_ to-”

“Of course you have the time,” Professor Moriarty retorts. “All that's required if for you to forgo the illusion of your own independence for a couple of months.”

“What does that mean?” Sebastian asks warily.

“It means you won't be wearing those God awful barista teeshirts for a while,” Moriarty replies.

Seb begins to protest, “I can't just stop attending my _job_ -”

“Of course you can,” the professor insists. “I have arranged it all with your employer.”

“You _what_?”

Professor Moriarty tuts. “You've been warned about that tone already, Se- _bast_ -ian...”

Seb frowns and chews his lip. “You don't _own_ me,” he whines.

“I certainly do,” Moriarty retorts. “As such, you will be following a study schedule of my creation for the foreseeable future, and I shall be overlooking all coursework of yours in good time before submission dates to ensure you have ample opportunity to redraft.”

The assertion makes Sebastian feel oddly better. Still, he feels guilty. It makes him forget to say thank you, as even the part annoyed about his job cannot deny relief that his education is not in ruins. “I'm sorry for… earlier.”

The brunet gives him a frank look. It does things to Seb's insides. “For which part? When you-”

“All of it!” Sebastian blurts, embarrassed.

“Oh, you're going to be,” Moriarty declares.

Sebastian instantly feels sick. And excited. “Are you really going to… um..?”

The Irish devil smirks. “Am I what, Se- _bast_ -ian? Am I going to bare your lovely little bottom now and teach you an evidently necessary lesson?”

Sebastian casts down his gaze in mortification. His neck, cheeks and even ears feel hot as he meekly nods.

“Use your words, Se- _bast_ -ian.”

“Are you… Are you going to smack my, um, my behind?” Seb asks in a humiliated mutter.

Professor Moriarty takes Sebastian's wrist and tugs the blond to his feet. “I dare say I shall, but firstly, I'm going to have you pull your pyjamas down to your knees, young man.”

Some of the blood that drains from Seb's face makes it to his groin. He shifts his weight awkwardly and hopes desperately for an excuse that will save him, his bum, and the remaining shreds of his dignity.

“Right now, Se- _bast_ -ian,” Moriarty orders.

Sebastian flashes pleading eyes towards the devil for a moment. Upon seeing Professor Moriarty's unmoved and slightly sadistically amused expression (which thrills the blond in a way that _does not help_ his rising arousal) Seb reluctantly reaches for his waistband.

Moriarty raises a brow and Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut before nervously thrusting down his pyjama bottoms.

Sebastian can feel his heart pounding in his chest as the Irish professor takes a calm breath and observes the view exposed. Sebastian's tan thighs feel very cold all of a sudden and his leg hair prickles from fright. His snug cotton boxers seem to afford almost no protection from Moriarty's promised discipline.

“Over my lap, please, Se- _bast_ -ian,” the devil purrs.

Sebastian almost sobs with humiliation and need. He feels desperate for the brunet's attention, any attention, however painful. Seb shuffles over reluctantly and gasps as Professor Moriarty firmly pulls him into the dreaded, vulnerable, exciting position.

Seb knows the Irish devil is smirking even before he speaks. Moriarty pats Sebastian's upturned bottom tauntingly and says, “This has been a long time coming; don't you agree, little boy?”

Sebastian does not know what to say. Embarrassment keeps his mouth welded shut. The devil is probably right: it has taken so many teasing threats to get to this point Sebastian wasn't enturely certain until now whether Moriarty really meant to follow through on his wickedly purred words.

Professor Moriarty playfully yanks the younger man's brief boxers up tight between Seb's cheeks to expose more of Sebastian's bottom. Grinning as the blond's gasp graduates into a cut off whimper, Moriarty strokes the bared skin and comments, “Funny, you would think you would have a polite tongue in your head when you are this close to sobbing over my lap. I asked you a question, Se- _bast_ -ian Moran.”

“I'm sorry!” Seb instantly squeaks as though he is not perfectly big and strong enough to pull himself from his unenviable position should he truly want to do so.

“No, darling, you aren't really sorry yet,” Moriarty drawls. He gives one of Sebastian's cheek an experimental squeeze and grins at the noise Seb makes. “Don't you worry though,” Moriarty continues as his eyes glint cruelly, “feeling my hand against your defenseless little bottom over and over is _certainly_ going to make you remorseful.”

Sebastian bites his lip uneasily. If he is as embarrassed and vaguely frightened as he thinks he is, then he must be very broken downstairs. His humiliation is heightened by the knowledge that he has no way to hide his blatant arousal.

Professor Moriarty chuckles unkindly and delivers a first, sharp, shocking slap which makes Sebastian flinch. “You rude little boy. Don't you know to say, 'thank you very much' when I start to give you the spanking that you so very clearly need?”

“Oh, ow! _Thank you, sir!_ ” Sebastian blurts at once. His face reddens from more than the angle he is draped over the professor's knees at.

“Much better, clever boy,” Moriarty praises with amusement. He delivers a lazy, irregular flurry of smarting spanks and feels pleasure at how Seb flinches and wriggles. “You've wanted this for some time, haven't you, Se- _bast_ -ian? You have wanted so desperately for me to take you in hand.”

Sebastian refuses to dignify that with an answer at first, but his bottom is swiftly peppered with painful smacks which make him gasp. He quickly crumbles and scowls as he reluctantly admits, “Ow! Ow! Yes, sir, oh, _ow_!”

Professor Moriarty tuts with faux sympathy. “Dear, dear, my poor little brat. Having this cute little bottom smacked is smarting more than your ego, isn't it, Se- _bast_ -ian, darling?”

Seb spends a moment fruitlessly trying to squirm back from the eye-watering spanks before even trying to pay attention to the lecturer's words.

“ Se- _BAST_ -ian!” Moriarty barks.

Seb yelps and is momentarily shocked by the force of three fierce smacks. “Y-yes, sir,” he admits in a fluster, “it really hurts, Professor.”

“That's exactly what you deserve, don't you agree, little boy?” Moriarty teases. “Wicked little brats who neglect their studies and throw _terribly naughty_ tantrums when scolded deserve a _good, hard, spanking_.”

“Ohhh, owww!” Sebastian whimpers pitifully. The pyjamas he had pushed down his thighs to his knees have now tangled around his ankles and the Irishman's smacks are harsh enough that Seb's eyes wet again with tears.

Sebastian does not ask Professor Moriarty to stop. Despite the fiery pain Seb sees no reason to wail for clemency when part of him is very much enjoying himself. The fear of the pain is thrilling and Moriarty's casual command of him sends jolts of pleasure between Sebastian's flailing legs.

“This naughty bottom has turned a very pretty pink, Se- _bast_ -ian,” Professor Moriarty comments. “Did you know this colour suits you? It's almost as fetching as what a sorry little boy you appear bent whimpering over my lap like this.”

“I-I'm sorry for my tantrums!” Sebastian gasps. “And my grades!”

Moriarty tuts disparagingly. “You had the affront to blame Jamie and I for your inattention. You ought know fine well had you come to us and said our little games were distracting you from your studies we would have sought to tutor you _at once_.”

Sebastian squeals uncharacteristically as the older man's palm cracks down upon his tender bottom with thus far unsurpassed ferocity. “I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_ , Professor, sir!” Seb howls.

“Not nearly sorry enough yet,” Professor Moriarty scolds unsympathetically. “Stand back up. It's about time I pulled your pants down and gave you a proper spanking.”

Sebastian's groin throbs enthusiastically even as he lets out a sob. He feels a deep wave of humiliation as he struggles up to obey. Seb squeezes his eyes firmly shut with shame and excitement as the lecturer slowly pulls the tightly scrunched boxers down over his straining, shining arousal.

Moriarty tuts again. His voice is rich with amusement as he says, “Dirty boy. The front of your panties are _soaking wet_. We'll see if we can't get you to be more remorseful when I spank your cheeks to a dark, ruby red, shall we?”

“Oh please, sir...” Sebastian groans. He's not sure what he's even asking for.

Moriarty seems to understand. He pushes Sebastian back down and proceeds to thrash Seb's throbbing, pink bottom until the tears stream freely into Sebastian's hairline and Seb thinks he might die of sexual need.

The professor does not stop until Sebastian is a limp, weeping puddle of a young man. At this point Moriarty strokes Seb's back soothingly and waits until the loud sobbing subsides. “There now,” says the captivating Irishman. “You needed a good cry, didn't you?”

Seb snivels softly and wonders how the older man knew. “Yes, sir,” he sniffs.

“What do you have to say?”

“Thank you sir. And I am _very_ sorry.”

“Come here. I am sure you are desperate for some positive attention after being so soundly spanked to tears.”

Sebastian ineffectively wipes at his wet face and scrambles to obey. “Yes, sir! Thank you...” 

Professor Moriarty washes his dark gaze over the blond sternly. “If I have to do this in future you'll be lucky if I let you sit at my feet and get petted, do you hear me?”

Sebastian nods desperately.

Moriarty surveys the younger man for a beat longer then nods. “But this is the first proper spanking I've given you, and I wasn't gentle. Come put a knee either side of my lap so you're not putting weight on your sorry, scarlet little bottom.”

“Don't think it's little after you've had your hand on it,” Sebastian says ruefully. “I'm sure it's so swollen I won't get my pants back up.”

The lecturer chuckles. The poor boy has all but kicked off his flannel bottoms and boxer shorts during his spanking. They are merely tangled around one foot and Moriarty doubts Sebastian is yet capable of dressing himself after such a good cry. 

“Leave them off for now; you won't need them,” Professor Moriarty says charitably. He tugs the front of Sebastian's pyjama jacket. “Smear yourself on my suit, however, and I'll make your first smacking seem like a caress, understood?”

Sebastian swallows. He knows perfectly well the fabric cladding the man's thigh had become slippery with his own need during the neverending physical chastisement. Seb is uncertain whether this comment means Moriarty has not noticed, so he chooses to keep silent on that matter.

“Yes sir,” Sebastian agrees dutifully.

Professor Moriarty surprises the blond by pulling him close and fingering the curls at the nape of Sebastian's hot neck comfortingly. “How do you feel?” the devil asks.

“Horny,” Sebastian mutters. “And sore. You've definitely bruised me.”

Moriarty laughs and lightly slaps the back of the young man's thighs. “Is that an appropriate way to talk to me, you brat?”

There is something so relaxed in that laughter, and their proximity so intimate, that Sebastian suddenly feels rather brave. Perhaps the lecturer beat Seb's self preservation instinct right out of his throbbing buttocks. He's heard that's a thing, when you attach yourself to the alpha male who has hurt you.

Sebastian stares at Professor Moriarty's reddened lips. Taking leave of his common sense, Seb licks his own mouth then quickly leans in before he can think better of it.

The lecturer makes no move for a moment. His lips brush Sebastian's and the blond hesitates, scared to press further without encouragement. The devil smells wonderful.

Moriarty's lips curl into a grin against Seb's own and the devil grabs a handful of Sebastian's swollen bottom, pulling the brat in close. Seb gasps in pain but is swiftly distracted by Professor Moriarty's teeth upon his lower lip. Sebastian groans.

The brunet tugs the flesh then lets go to force his tongue between Sebastian's lips, which part at once. Seb's heart pounds with surprise and delight.

Moriarty pulls Sebastian's legs further around his waist and pins the larger man against his chest. Tugging Sebastian's tight, blond curls, the brunet devours Seb in a clash of teeth and tongue.

Seb loves it. He tries to push back into the kiss and against Moriarty's chest, not to dominate but to show his enthusiasm. The Irishman merely seems to take this as a challenge and kisses Sebastian more forcefully still, before yanking back Seb's scalp by the hair and turning his sharp teeth to the younger man's neck.

Sebastian moans. He thinks he's in heaven, and the devil's tongue on the lobe of his ear feels exquisitely sinful.

“Who owns you, Sebastian?” Professor Moriarty murmurs confidently.

“Ohhh, you do...” Sebastian gasps.

Amusement colours Moriarty's voice. “Clever boy.” He worries and suckles and nips at Seb's mottling throat and the blond leans into the contact with squeaking, sighing noises of bliss.

“I'll let you give me a maintenance spanking _every day_ if you kiss me like this afterwards,” Sebastian groans happily.

Professor Moriarty squeezes Seb's bruised bottom firmly, biting into the young man's wet neck as Sebastian gasps. “This was not a reward, Sebastian,” Moriarty growls. “I beat your sweet little arse because you've been _begging_ for it, you little brat.”

Sebastian swallows and twists around to meet the Irishman's eyes. “If I beg you, will you fuck me?”

Moriarty takes hold of Sebastian's chin. “Which part of 'not a reward' are you not getting, little boy?”

Sebastian licks his lips with nervous hope. “It doesn't have to be a reward,” he says slowly. “You could punish me. Fuck me hard and prove to me who's in control.”

Moriarty doesn't bite. “You already know precisely who is in control. He bent you over his knees and spanked you to tears not long ago.”

Sebastian tries to look as seductive as possible. His debauched lips and eyelashes spiked with tears lend him a great deal in his efforts. “If I'm yours then _claim_ me.”

The lecturer smirks mockingly. “If I give you a good seeing to now, every time your greedy little hole wants my cock you'll throw a tantrum. I'd be throwing away thousands and thousands of pounds through the ruination of my antique books.”

Seb has the good sense to look chastised, but also the shamelessness to grind pointedly in Moriarty's lap. Something hot and hard catches against Sebastian and the blond presses against it. “But you _want_ to. I _promise_ I won't damage anything else.”

Moriarty raises his brows. “Of course you won't. Those books are coming out of your pocket money.”

“I don't get pocket money.”

“And you shan't until you're seventy four years old, after what you did this afternoon,” Professor Moriarty responds.

“What if you make it hurt?” Sebastian asks breathily. “I'll let you prep me with just spit if you'll _pleeeeeease_ just fuck me. I'm desperate, sir.”

“You're a little harlot, is what you are,” says Moriarty, but he does not seem entirely disapproving. “I certainly won't be claiming you for the first time using spit, I like my foreskin untorn, thank you very much.”

“Then what do you want?” Sebastian wails. “I'll do anything, I promise, I-”

The Irishman bites his broad shoulder. “Enough.”

“Oh, but sir-”

Professor Moriarty slaps Seb's bruised bottom sternly and stares the blond down as Seb gasps in pain. “You do as you're told, little boy. Your already sore bum is no defence against another spanking if you cannot behave yourself properly.”

Sebastian swallows. He is quite desperate for the devil's touch, but he's also very, _very_ sore. “Yes, sir,” he sighs.

Moriarty smirks at him. “Oh, don't pout. You're quite adorable.”

Seb squirms a little in the man's lap. “If I'm so adorable why won't you do something about it?” he grumbles softly. He sighs again. “Can I at least give you a blowjob?”

“No, you cannot,” Moriarty grins. “That would also be a _reward_.” 

“Even if you choke me?”

“Especially if I choke you,” the lecturer chuckles. “Sebby, pet, accept that you are not getting any relief today.”

Sebastian's pout turns sulky and mutinous.

Moriarty slaps the younger man's bottom and smirks at Seb's hiss. “Oh, I don't think so,” Professor Moriarty drawls. “You _certainly_ won't be touching yourself until I give you say so either.”

Sebastian blinks rapidly. “You… mean like, tonight? Right?”

The devil smiles cruelly. “Oh, no, Se- _bast_ -ian, darling. You said yourself that your grades are failing because you cannot control your naughty, dirty little fantasies. The best way to tackle that is for me to take control of _all_ your orgasms.”

Seb licks his suddenly very dry lips. “You don't _really_ mean that… right?”

“Oh, I absolutely do, young man,” says Professor Moriarty. “From now on _you_ only climax upon my say so.”

Part of Sebastian very much likes this idea, but the part of him desperate for sexual relief is appalled. “But that's not fair!”

Moriarty pinches Seb's bottom. “What has 'fair' to do with it? I own you. Your greedy little prick is mine to do with as I please. And it _doesn't_ please me to reward naughty little boys with deliciously wonderful, good, hard sex.”

Sebastian squirms. “But I'm desperate...” he whines.

“Precisely the fun,” the devil grins. “Now get up; it's time you were dressed.”

“I'm just going to leak right through everything,” Sebastian mutters.

“Then you're going to look like you've wet yourself in public,” the professor murmurs.

Sebastian steps back warily. “What do you mean _'in public'_?”

Professor Moriarty reaches for the bundle of Sebastian's clothes and untangles the flannel legs. “Why, you are coming home with me of course. I cannot trust you alone with that needy little erection, can I? And grounded little boys wear their pyjamas.”

Sebastian tries to ignore how his cock twitches, or that the dark-haired devil definitely notices. “Are you _serious_?” he hisses.

“Oh, entirely,” says Moriarty. “Be thankful it's not a long walk to the car. And Se- _bast_ -ian, darling, you had best fetch your slippers too. I dare say you'll give me reason to use one on your ruby red buttocks before it comes time for me to tuck you up in bed.”


	14. Pyjama Drama

Sebastian has never in his life been out in public in his pyjamas with the exception of romping around outdoors in the dark in 'secret' during childhood overnight camps with other Scouts. That experience had felt fraternal and private, gleeful and perfectly natural; this experience feels entirely different in its confusing mixture of intimacy and openness. This isn't in the dark of night in the middle of nowhere with his many friends: this is stark daylight still in full view of the street populated by the dregs of society and in the company of a lone, disturbingly captivating devil.

Professor Moriarty offers his hand in an eye-catchingly deliberate, elegant gesture. “Come along young man. You have to hold Daddy's hand when we're near a busy road.”

Sebastian swallows. All of his organs seemed to jump in astonished thrill at the smirking devil's _Daddy_ comment and Seb tries very hard to remind his tingling nethers that he is _not_ thus inclined. “S'not a busy road,” the blond mumbles.

Sebastian's loins entirely disbelieve the lie he continues to tell himself about his preferences and Moriarty's dark eyes glint promisingly. The devil tuts. “It's also not clever to contradict your Daddy, Se- _bast_ -ian, especially when your little bum-bum is still throbbing from the well deserved, panties down _smacking_ that I gave you not long ago.”

Humiliated and aroused, Sebastian shivers and thinks his body is going into shock from its difficulty in sending blood to both his heads at once.

Professor Moriarty bares his teeth. His dark brows are raised in cruel amusement. “Do I need to make you cry again so soon, darling?”

Sebastian bites his lips and subconsciously reaches back to gingerly touch his still very warm buttock. The wretched Irish devil is certainly correct that Seb currently has a very sore bottom.

' _Bum-bum_ ,' Sebastian's memory adds unhelpfully. He turns puce in mortification.

Professor Moriarty leans close enough that Sebastian can feel his breath on his skin. “Little boy, are you being insolent? I asked you a question.”

Seb scrunches up his face in apprehension and awkwardness. He refuses to say ' _daddy_. He _won't_. 

“I'm sorry, sir,” Sebastian apologises. He feels very small standing in his street in his pyjamas with a painful, freshly smacked bottom getting a scolding. Particularly when the professor seems so mature in his refined tailoring and understated expensive cufflinks. The height difference between them only serves to amplify Sebastian's feeling's of immaturity and inaptitude, as he feels much too big to feel so bumbling and lost.

The brunet devil seems to read Seb's every thought and his lips curl once again.

The blond's stomach twists and coils. Sebastian lowers his gaze contritely and is concerned -not at all for the first time- to find he does not dislike the experience. He'd happily let the Irishman stare at him with mockingly stern amusement for hours. Sebastian's lips gape a little as he dares to glance up again into the devil's face.

“You could be much sorrier,” Moriarty chides with sparkling eyes. “Hand.”

“Yes… Yes sir,” Sebastian mutters, quickly casting down his eyes again. He feels very silly and yet excited as the Irishman takes his hand possessively. 

The professor leads Seb commandingly across the pavement to a car. As they approach a driver gets out and opens the door. Sebastian feels a further wave of humiliation at being seen dressed and treated as he is, which only seems to make Moriarty's smirk wider.

Sebastian wastes no time allowing himself to be bundled into the devil's car in the hope that his promptness will get them out of public sight. The professor surprises him by leaning in and pulling down Seb's seatbelt. Sebastian's nostrils fill with the scent of his Irish devil as Professor Moriarty leans in over him to fasten the restraint.

“Safety first,” the brunet taunts.

Sebastian focuses on the heat and discomfort of his well-smacked bottom and tries to behave himself. He very much wants to grab the slight devil and pull him in for a kiss, but he does not dare. Professor Moriarty gives him a knowing look and steps away. The brunet closes the door and crosses over to the other side of the car. Sebastian is jointly relieved and aggrieved that the Irishman chose not to climb over him and his erection slooooowly.

Moriarty fastens his own seatbelt with a sharp snap. “Home,” he orders the silent driver.

The car moves into gear and after a few moments pulls away from the curb smoothly. Sebastian tries and fails not to squirm.

“Can't find a comfortable position?” the professor teases.

Sebastian juts his lip at the devil exasperatedly. Moriarty merely chuckles. “Aren't you darling? I should have taken you over my knees much sooner, Sebby.”

 _Sebby_. The pet name causes Sebastian's tummy to flutter in pleasure at the mixture of affection and possessiveness he fancies he hears in the devil's tone.

“Spank me as much as you like… s'long as you kiss me better,” Seb responds chancingly. 

Beside him the dark-haired devil barks out a laugh. “You cannot even _pretend_ to be remorseful, you brat?”

“'M a little remorseful,” Sebastian mumbles. “Hurts to sit.”

“And what's to stop me taking off those jim-jams and topping up the tanning I gave you until you're glowing as red as a tail light?” Moriarty asks.

“You like when I'm cheeky,” says Sebastian.

The professor raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”

Seb shrinks back in his seat a little. “I hope you do...”

Moriarty chuckles. “We'll see.” The car draws up and he untangles himself from his own seatbelt with unnatural speed. The blond bedside him follows with hesitant eagerness.

The captivating devil shepherds Sebastian up the stone steps to the Moriartys' familiar and intimidating front door. Seb knows the street to be populated by many of his father's acquaintances and wonders how far a bystander could identify his facial scars from. The blond shuffles in his pyjamas on the step feeling self-conscious, awkward, and rather at Professor Moriarty's mercy.

John Geoffrey opens the heavy door before them; Sebastian feels his neck and face heat at the man's appraising look. Moriarty pats Seb's sore bottom. “Straight upstairs, young man. You already know naughty little boys get put to bed without their supper.”

Sebastian has no appetite for food, but beneath his sudden shame at being spoken to thus in front of Professor Moriarty's underbutler, Seb feels a yearning. He is so hungry for this attention. He's not going to be left alone, is he?

Geoffrey stands aside smoothly and allows them entry. Moriarty ascends the first few steps of the staircase at once before using the extra height to grab Sebastian's nearest ear and pull. “I'll show you where you will be tucked in tonight,” the brunet purrs.

Seb blushes an even more furious red, but one look in the devil's eyes has him swallowing his protest. Seb tries not to be blatant about reaching back to shield his sore bottom and very deliberately avoids looking in Mr Geoffrey's direction.

If the underbutler pays him any mind Sebastian never notices. Professor Moriarty _tugs_ and Sebastian follows the short devil upstairs lest he lose his flesh to the ear-marching.

Moriarty's pace is swift through the wide corridor but slows before a particular door. He uses his free hand to unlock it and push it aside. The professor steps forward and drops Sebastian's ear, his small hand commandingly finding the small of Seb's back instead. He sweeps Sebastian into the room and looks over both their surroundings and the young man thoughtfully.

Sebastian is caught off-guard by the abrupt softness in his devil's hypnotic gaze.

Professor Moriarty blinks and the expression is gone as though nothing more than a flash of fancy. “This is my room,” he says in an odd voice. “I rather thought you might need supervision tonight to ensure your adherence to my rules.”

Sebastian swallows. _No orgasms_. Not without _Moriarty's_ say so. 

The brunet rolls his dark eyes. “If the front of your pyjamas get any damper you're going to catch a cold.”

Sebastian looks down at the glistening patch in the front of the worn fabric even though he knows exactly what the Irishman is alluding to. His breath catches as he asks, “Are you going to do anything about it?”

The professor gazes at him ominously. “I can lock it away if you can't be trusted, Se- _bast_ -ian.”

The blond swallows. “A cage won't stop me leaking, will it?” he mumbles.

Professor Moriarty chuckles disparagingly at Sebastian's crassness and lightly tugs the young man's stiff, blond curls. “Perhaps not, but it might help you better appreciate who is in charge here, young man.”

Sebastian leans into the touch immediately then feels self-conscious about his obvious neediness. He's never like this with anyone else.

Surprisingly, his Irish professor does not seem to mind. Moriarty pets him some more and Sebastian feels a surge of something unfamiliar in his chest. As intimidated by this devil as he is, Seb feels peculiarly safe and something close to wanted.

“That's enough, now, Tiger,” Professor Moriarty says gently. Sebastian looks up at him at once, startled out of his regret at the end of the very pleasant contact by the memorable pet name. Sebastian has some very striking chest scars from a misspent youth in a foreign country, but the devil doesn't actually know about that, does he?

Moriarty seems to notice Seb's sudden disquiet but does not give it room to be spoken. Instead he takes his hand away from Sebastian's scalp and pushes the blond firmly towards the open door of the en suite.

“Teeth brushed, young man,” the Irishman orders. “I am serious about your early bedtime.”

Sebastian's tummy flutters again and he follows his feet to the bathroom. Professor Moriarty glides along commandingly at his side and shows the blond where to find a new toothbrush.

Sebastian obediently brushes his teeth feeling a little silly and comfortingly domestic. Moriarty takes a fresh wash cloth and holds him bowed to wash the dried tears from Sebastian's face. The gesture surprises Seb but not as much as the comfort he finds in it.

Moriarty dries Sebastian's face in a fluffy, monogrammed towel that reminds the blond of childhood. “Do you need to relieve yourself?” 

Seb shakes his head.

“Alright.” Moriarty pats Sebastian's sore bottom lightly. “Into bed with you. You have my permission to leave it if you need to visit the lavatory, but otherwise I expect you tucked up under the covers when I come back up to check on you. Understood?”

Seb swallows and reluctantly steps towards the extremely comfortable-looking bed. “You're… not joining me?” the blond asks. He tries and fails to keep the obvious disappointment from his voice.

Professor Moriarty chuckles warmly. “This is supposed to be a _punishment_ , young man. Now do as you're bid and I'll be generous enough to tuck you in.”

Sebastian eyes the bed and its owner dubiously. “You know I'm not actually a little boy?”

The professor raises a brow and looks pointedly at the front of Seb's pyjamas. “I had noticed. Now are you going to do as you're told, Se- _bast_ -ian, or do I have to remind you how easily I could bare your red little backside for a slippering?”

Sebastian blushes predictably. He's not against another spanking this evening, per se, but his posterior _is_ tender and his embarrassment makes him hop towards the bed swiftly. Sebastian turns down the quilt and wonders how to climb onto the mattress without offering his bottom up as an easy target for a smack or having to sit on the sorry, stinging thing.

Moriarty laughs behind him and Seb knows the professor can read his thoughts. “You're safe for now, Se- _bast_ -ian,” Moriarty teases. “Get in.”

Sebastian obeys suspiciously and quickly lies on his side with his bottom directed away from the older man. Moriarty's dark eyes glitter. He steps in close and pulls the blanket up around the blond.

Sebastian swallows. This is wholly unfamiliar. His father's associates have enjoyed a number of peculiar games with him, but nothing quite like this. It's eerily domestic. Safe. Even though he's certain this devil might eat him alive.

Professor Moriarty pats Seb's bottom over the duvet just firmly enough that Sebastian can feel it without wincing. “Be good,” the brunet warns. “I'll be up to check on you later. I have some work to attend to.”

“Are you going to attend to me after that?” Sebastian asks hopefully.

“I'm not going to spoil you, young man,” Moriarty drawls. He fixes the blond with a playful look. “Now _goodnight_. Sleep tight. There's no bed bugs who'll bite… _but I do_.”

Sebastian almost chokes.

Cackling, the professor pulls away and heads out of the door. “Remember, Sebbikins,” he warns, “behave yourself!”

“What if I want you to spank me?” Sebastian calls bravely towards the open doorway.

“I've already got a _glut_ of excuses for that, young man,” Moriarty replies thrillingly.

Sebastian hears the Irishman tread away down the hallway. Which is at least better than the devil further proving any mastery of apparition. 

True to the professor's word, Sebastian's bedtime is indeed an early one. He sighs and turns to watch the slice of sky from the window change colour gradually. He's sure he ought feel bored, but Seb genuinely does not feel so as he huddles down into the comfortable pillows and listens to the local birds announce the encroaching twilight.

Sebastian is sound asleep when Professor Moriarty returns. The blond startles at the Irishman's attempt to rouse him and Seb blinks in confusion for a moment as he tries to process the all-consuming smell the professor has brought with him.

Sebastian slowly takes note of the steaming bowl in the older man's hands.

“Don't think this means I won't follow through with your discipline,” Moriarty says at once. “I said you'd go to sleep on an empty little tummy for your naughtiness and you did, but I don't want you going too long without enough nutrition. There's little enough fat on you as it is.”

Sebastian accepts supper with a warm feeling in his chest. He curls onto his side to eat, finding his bottom still a little tender. “Some people like how I look,” Seb says, although he doesn't exactly feel insulted. 

Professor Moriarty raises a dour eyebrow in his direction. “You're certainly handsome, Se- _bast_ -ian, but you also look one bad flu away from a feeding tube. You're muscle and bone and not much else apart from a harlot's tongue and some fetching pink handprints.”

“Why do you care?” Sebastian mumbles.

Moriarty gives him an intense _look_ then turns away. “I like my toys in good working order,” he grumbles. “Eat your soup.”

“I've never understood why we say _eat_ soup when it's a liquid,” Sebastian mutters.

“I see your years at university have been a wonderful use of funds,” the professor says dryly.

Sebastian shoots the man a look. “I'm studying literature, not linguistics.”

Moriarty smiles. It is not entirely reassuring. “I know. Are you finished?”

Seb puts the still warm bowl aside and nods, wondering what may come next. He makes an exasperated face when he is merely told to go brush his teeth again. Mildly huffily Sebastian obeys, then quickly returns when he notices his Irish devil has slipped under the bedcovers.

“Are we going to..?”

“No, Se- _bast_ -ian,” the professor answers wryly. “Come here; it's time you were back asleep.”

The front of Seb's pyjamas have dried in but the young man can feel a stirring again as blood returns to its second most favourite hangout spot. Moriarty chooses not to jibe about it and instead pointedly tugs Sebastian onto the mattress.

Being on the bed with Moriarty is very different from being in bed without the devil. Sebastian flutters with hope and adrenaline, but is sorely disappointed when Professor Moriarty swiftly rolls away from him to sleep.

Sebastian sits up staring into the darkened room until Moriarty tiredly orders him to lie down properly and get some rest. Sebastian cuddles into the thick corner of duvet he tucks under his chin but feels out of place.

His dreams amplify Sebastian's disquiet. He is startled to wake in a room that is not his own, in a bed far more luxurious than any of the hotel rooms his previous clients have ever paid for.

Moriarty leans over him. The professor's expression is attentive, but Seb is soon distracted by the Irishman's bare chest. Moriarty had went to bed wearing silk pyjamas, but the combined heat of the pair of them under the heavy tog of the duvet had driven the brunet to remove his bedjacket.

Moriarty notices Sebastian's gaze and pulls away slightly. “You're alright. I haven't-”

“I know,” Sebastian blurts. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-”

“Bad dream?” Moriarty interrupts.

Seb is quiet for a moment, then nods. He feels ashamed and childish.

The Irish professor does not scold. He lies down and spreads his arms, offering Sebastian the expanse of his chest. “Come here. I've got you.”

Sebastian swallows. “I'm not a baby.”

“I know you're not, or you wouldn't have looked at me like you just did,” Professor Moriarty says dryly. “Do as you're told for once.”

Sebastian's gaze flickers warily. “I...”

Moriarty sighs distastefully and reaches out to pull the larger young man towards himself. Seb is surprised and pleased by the firm grasp but is uncertain how respond. It is uncomfortable to lean on his own weight straining away from the small Irishman's chest, and eventually Seb dares to nuzzle in against the warm flesh. He feels a surge of comfort when the professor emits a pleased grunt and slides him closer.

“Get some sleep, little one,” the devil mutters. His voice is unusually slurred with sleep, the accent strong and captivating. “You know I don't break my toys.”

Sebastian wonders for a moment how the brunet knew the content of his nightmares, but the comfort of his position is too perfect to ignore. He has wanted Moriarty's attention for so long, and this exceptional intimacy feeds a part of him he had not remembered was starving.

 _Little one_. The endearment lingers in the room and Seb focuses on it sleepily. He's nearly a head and a half taller than the professor, probably. It does not feel that way at all. The personality of the brunet Sebastian is curled into makes the Irishman seem so much larger, and stronger, and generally more powerful.

Sebastian breathes in the scent of the warm skin of the chest his face is squashed up against and he marvels at how this devil can somehow make him feel safe.

Moriarty is gone in the morning.

Sebastian regards the empty side of the bed with stinging disappointment that makes the few blooming bruises on his mostly healing bottom meaningless in comparison. Sliding skin against the cool space where the professor slept shows Sebastian the devil has been gone for a long time already.

Seb swallows and looks around for the pyjama jacket or any proof the devil actually joined him last night. He startles upon noting the bowl from last night is missing.

Still, his bladder is complaining so perhaps last night did happen. Sebastian visits the toilet then peers at the shower wondering how the complicated structure works.

Jamie is sitting on the bed when Sebastian steps back into the room pink-skinned, clean, and smelling just a little of Professor Moriarty.

The woman smirks at him and Sebastian feels a thrill of vulnerability as though her eyes can see right through his thick towel.

She is uncharacteristically stripped of her usual elegant attire. Jamie is cross-legged in a man's shirt -quite probably her brother's as it looks so short on her- with two buttons fastened between her beasts. Sebastian can quite clearly see the gleaming pattern of her tastefully embroidered, lace trimmed underpants.

Sebastian tries to raise his gaze to Jamie's eyes, but her brother's shirt strains prominently across her breasts. Seb swallows and looks away guiltily.

“Oh don't worry, you're allowed to look,” she says with amusement. “If you are exceptionally good I would even let you touch.”

Sebastian tries with difficulty to swallow. “What- Um, what would the Professor say about that?”

“Possibly that he'd break your fingers, but doesn't that make it more interesting?” Jamie beams.

Sebastian licks his dry lips.

She grins at him, and Seb wonders whether she was joking. She pushes some of her honey-coloured bangs behind her ear and Sebastian notices the paint smearing her arms and wrists. It is faded unevenly from her palms and fingers as though washed without use of white spirit.

“I don't only play piano and shop,” Jamie drawls by way of explanation.

“Oh I know _that_ ,” Sebastian mumbles. “You live to tease me.”

She giggles unkindly in agreement. “And on that note, darling Basher, I heard that _somebody_ finally got his perky little bottom spanked red raw over my brother's lap last night. _Do_ bring yourself here so I can see.”

Sebastian blushes fiercely enough to be noticeable despite his flush from the shower's heat. “Most of the marks are gone,” he mumbles.

Jamie tuts. “I bet my brother went gentle on you and used his hand, didn't he? The first time _I_ roast your sweet tush, Sebastian, I promise you I shall use my hairbrush.”

The young man swallows. He tries to tell himself he's not excited by the thought.

The way Jamie's eyes sparkle clearly indicate she knows the truth, but she turns away from him to glance at the door. “Good morning. I've told your boy he should drop that pesky towel for a bottom inspection.”

Professor Moriarty smirks in the doorway and Sebastian feels a sweet ache of need inside himself at the sight. Seb almost doesn't even think about the dizzying prospect of a naked _smacked bottom inspection_.

“I've got someone on the way up with his breakfast,” Moriarty says casually. He directs his gaze back at Sebastian. “Did you sleep well, brat?”

Sebastian looks down quickly. “Yes, thank you. Sir.”

The brunet's lips twitch in amusement. “Good boy. Now why don't you join us by the bed and you can drop that towel, hmm?”

Seb feels like his heart has stopped as the Irish devil saunters towards them and beckons with a crooked finger for Sebastian to hurry.

“ _Towel_ , Se- _bast_ -ian,” Moriarty repeats dangerously. “Now...”

The blond swallows and his heartbeat returns only to deafen his ears. He creeps towards the pair and slowly obeys.

Jamie reaches out and snatches Sebastian's arm, dragging him closer. Her brother teasingly runs his fingertips up the back of Seb's thighs towards the small, pale blue bruises.

“You went easy on him,” Jamie comments.

“I'm taking my time,” Professor Moriarty drawls comfortably in response. He squeezes Sebastian's skin, making the blond gasp.

Both siblings chuckle at his response. “You haven't claimed him yet, have you?” Jamie says.

Moriarty digs his manicured nails teasingly into Seb's side. “I like to take my time. I'm going to devour him.”

Jamie rolls her eyes and lifts Sebastian's chin to gaze at him speculatively. “I wish you'd hurry up and fuck him,” she tells her brother. “It is _so_ much more fun to take your things once you've claimed him as yours.”

The Irishman chuckles tolerantly and Jamie kisses Sebastian teasingly. The brunet pulls his sister back by her wavy ponytail and lowers his voice to a purr. “If you want to _borrow_ my _toy_ , Jamie, all you have to do is _beg_.”

“He'd have to do some very interesting tricks to make me beg,” Jamie responds in similar tones. “How do you feel about a wager?”

“Does how _I_ feel matter?” Sebastian asks bravely.

“Not a jot,” the Irish professor answers lightly. He lightly spanks Seb's naked bottom and smiles when the blond gasps and squirms against the bedding. Moriarty trails his nails more firmly over Sebastian's skin. “What did I tell you about not getting yourself on my bedding, young man?”

Sebastian kicks out unconsciously and completely cannot stop himself from grinding further. “Probably not to… But I'm not cumming, so...”

Jamie laughs wickedly and claps her dirty hands, whilst her brother smirks and gives the blond a few teasingly stinging spanks in no discernible pattern. Sebastian keens so hard he barely hears what Moriarty growls warmly.

What Sebastian _does_ hear is a heavy man's tread in the doorway. He quickly turns, utterly embarrassed, to see a familiar manservant carrying a tray of food.

Jamie feels no such shame. “You normally hate crumbs on the bed.”

Her brother wrinkles his nose. “The sheets need changed anyway. And he needs to eat.”

“Special treatment for Basher, hmm?” Jamie murmurs, leaning on her hands and knees towards her brother's ear. Her (his) shirt gapes forwards exposing an expanse of her bent thighs. 

He gives her a sharp smile and tells her to be quiet. Jamie simpers sneeringly and gets up, swiping something from Sebastian's intended breakfast before sauntering away.

Moriarty sighs and looks down at Sebastian's wide eyes. The blond does not dare to consider what any of this may mean. He cannot tell if his heart has stopped or whether it's pounding so hard he cannot hear it at all.

The professor runs a thumb over Sebastian's mottled, marked throat. The bruises are fetching on him. “Time you ate, boy.”

“Can't I put some clothes on first?” Seb whispers.

“Clothes, orgasms, you just want everything don't you?” Moriarty taunts.

Sebastian bites his lip then puts his hand on Moriarty's, holding it over his neck. “I want you,” the blond says.


	15. Bubble, Bubble, Denied and Trouble

Sebastian is thrilled when Professor Moriarty allows him to climb back into his lap and kiss him enthusiastically. The Irish devil scrapes his manicured nails deliberately down Seb's neck and rumbles softly with an amused, possessive noise that twists Sebastian's stomach.

Moriarty reaches down and grabs Seb's bottom harshly enough to make the blond gasp and jerk forward. “Jamie wasn't wrong about my distaste for crumbs, young man.”

It takes a beat for Sebastian to parse the comment when he was so hoping to hear that the professor had changed his mind about taking things slow and was going to manifest some lubricant with that otherworldly, wicked magic the devil certainly possesses.

Somewhat frustratedly Seb follows Professor Moriarty's line of sight instead to discover the breakfast things are in terrible danger of being kicked across Moriarty's bedding and perhaps also the floor by Seb's bare feet. The brunet raises his brows pointedly.

Sebastian grins naughtily. “What will you do to me if I..?”

Professor Moriarty digs his fingers into Seb's skin with threatening assertiveness. “I'm going to stop you from being foolish enough to finish that sentence by informing you I won't just _slipper your naked bottom _, Se- _bast_ -ian Moran, but tie your foreskin in a knot and feed it to you.”__

__Sebastian instantly understands to pull his feet out of harm's way but cannot help glance downwards. “I don't think there's enough spare ski-”_ _

__“Oh, you don't want to know what nasty things I have at my disposal,” the devil Moriarty says._ _

__Sebastian shivers. There's certainly something _massively_ wrong with him because it takes all his self-control not to blurt, 'I _do_.' The way the brunet eyes him Seb gets the uncomfortable feeling Moriarty has read that thought too._ _

__The professor pushes Sebastian aside and pins him easily against the elaborate headboard despite their obvious size difference. Sebastian feels a rush of excitement, then another of disappointment. Professor Moriarty hands his blond the plate. “Eat up.”_ _

__Sebastian gives the food a pitiful look although his stomach makes known that actually he _is_ hungry. “I can't believe you let Biwott see me naked.”_ _

__Moriarty's lips purse in wry amusement. “He didn't just see you _naked_ , Se- _bast_ -ian, he saw you bent naked over my bed with your bruises on show, and my sister in attendance.”_ _

__Sebastian winces and considers perhaps he does not have the appetite for food after all. How _humiliating_._ _

__“Oh, don't pout,” says Moriarty. “I could have done worse things than let Uhuru see what a spoiled little pet you are.”_ _

__Sebastian doesn't know how to feel about the way the teasing endearment makes his tummy flutter. He wrinkles his nose and mumbles, “Like what?”_ _

__Professor Moriarty winks. “I could have had Jacob feed you.”_ _

__Sebastian's mouth swings closed and his ears turn lightly pink. Jacob Mörstern is the third footman of the Moriarty household, and Seb is not so far removed from his own family's lifestyle that he no longer remembers that the third footman's responsibilities typically include the breakfasts for a household's children._ _

__“That colour suits you.” Moriarty picks up a slice of toast and holds it to Sebastian's mouth. “Now stop fussing and eat before any more of my servants are subjected to the sight of my handprints across your bare bottom.”_ _

__Sebastian flushes even harder and casts down his gaze. The blond eats without further comment._ _

__Afterwards Professor Moriarty stands and casually begins to remove his clothing. Seb freezes instantly and watches in awestruck admiration._ _

__“Are-?”_ _

__Sebastian flinches back in response to the Irishman's pale fingers tapping his nose firmly. “Certainly not,” says Moriarty. “It's going to be a very long time before I permit you to have such fun.”_ _

__Seb huffs but cannot help but find enjoyment in the sight of the pale brunet's body anyway. The professor strips down to his underpants and a dry, knowing smirk. Sebastian finds his eyes glued to the dark hair decorating the desirable brunet's near translucent skin like an arrow helpfully directing Seb's attention to interesting places. Blue veins marble the flesh of Moriarty's hips and thighs._ _

__Sebastian yelps when Moriarty swats him lightly._ _

__“No dirty thoughts, Se- _bast_ -ian, or I'll have my valet bathe you instead,” the dark-eyed devil warns._ _

__Sebastian feels his cheeks glow with heat. Denied or not, what bloodflow has not rushed to his face is finding its way further down and he cannot help but stare at the pale devil hungrily._ _

__Professor Moriarty folds his clothing neatly over the bed's ornate footboard and holds out a white palm commandingly. Sebastian looks at it then at the devil's dark eyes. Moriarty gives him a smouldering look, glances at Seb's undeniable arousal, and drags the blond to his feet._ _

__Moriarty spins Sebastian around as though he isn't a musclebound young giant and guides Seb with a light pressure in the small of his back. The blond's hands shake with the excitement of _any_ sort of touch from his crush when they are both devoid of outer clothing (and he himself stripped down to his tingling skin)._ _

__Seb allows himself to be pushed towards the bathroom. The tiles underfoot are heated and are a welcome sensation when most of Sebastian's bloodflow is going places less important than his skin._ _

__Professor Moriarty stops them before a round bathtub easily large enough to accommodate them both, and Jamie, and perhaps half of the kitchen staff. Moriarty flicks on an elaborate waterfall tap and murmurs, “I don't normally do this sort of thing myself, but you purport to be a tad shy.”_ _

__Moriarty looks at Seb's thick, attentive member pointedly. “ _Supposedly_.”_ _

__If Sebastian had the blood to spare he would show the good grace to blush. Instead he watches admiringly as the Irish brunet leans forward fetchingly to stopper the bath with a shiny little dial._ _

__Moriarty glances at him over his shoulder before straightening up with graceful ease. “Little boys appreciate bubbles, correct?”_ _

__Sebastian grins and supposes they might give his dubious modesty some cover. The professor keeps stealing possessive glances at certain parts of Seb's anatomy that are likely to make a mess rather early if they keep being eyed like _that_._ _

__It is only when the hypnotic devil is sloshing the soapy water around (humming something to himself over the surprisingly fierce rush of water that Seb cannot quite place) that Sebastian realises this quiet domesticity is easily as comforting as the heated tiles._ _

__Moriarty turns and offers the young man a warm, wet hand. “In you go,” he lilts._ _

__Sebastian feels embarrassed for a moment: it's not like he cannot get into a _tub_ by himself (even one as massive as this one). However, the quirky devil's hand on his own feels pleasant even as water drips between their skin and runs down Sebastian's arm._ _

__Seb gasps softly as he steps carefully into the hot water. It is just the right side of hot to be blissful without seriously scalding him, although as he lowers himself into the water his skin turns a more vivid red than it did when Moriarty soundly smacked him._ _

__The brunet smiles at Seb. “Pleasant?”_ _

__“Very,” says Sebastian. He tries to hold down the urge to swipe playfully at the terribly indulgent towers of shining bubbles Professor Moriarty has provided. Seb smiles shyly at the Irishman and keeps his hand outstretched hopefully. “Are you joining me?”_ _

__Moriarty raises his brows disdainfully but there is a pleasant curl to his captivating lips. “ _Some_ of us got up and showered at dawn to go about our business,” he says, “and more to the point, should I join you I very much doubt you would be able to hold yourself back from straddling my lap.”_ _

__Sebastian juts his lower lip. “I'd make sure you'd enjoy it…”_ _

__Professor Moriarty laughs openly. The sound surprises and delights Sebastian, who drinks in the sight of Moriarty's expression and does his best to memorise the welcome noise._ _

__“Be that as it may,” says the captivating, dark-eyed devil, “I'd hate to have you so close to my skin and not fuck you, and you won't be having any sex until your final handins are behind you.”_ _

__Sebastian suddenly feels very cold despite the unnatural heat of the water. “Until _handins_? But that's, like, a...”_ _

__“A rather long time away, yes,” Moriarty agrees. His nostrils thin with unkind amusement as he purses his lips. “And I'll make you wait even longer if you don't get at least three merit grades.”_ _

__Sebastian is so appalled that he finds the bravely to slash unhappily through the bubbles nearest Professor Moriarty, making them scatter into colourful little shapes that float in the air and – worryingly- catch in the brunet's dark hair. “How am I suppose to study if I won't be able to concentrate?”_ _

__Moriarty deliberately turns his head in the direction of a bathbrush that Sebastian surmises with a shiver may have been purchased for the sole purpose of heating his already hot, lobster red bottom should he choose to misbehave. Seb swallows and lowers his gaze demurely in exaggerated deference. “I mean...” Sebastian breaks off in a sigh and softly whines, “why do you always have to tease me?”_ _

__Professor Moriarty – wicked, soulless devil- smiles at him. “Because it's terribly good fun.” He takes pity on the wet blond and tugs Seb's nearest ear. “Don't worry, Tiger, I didn't say you'd be going all that time without any _release_.”_ _

__The sudden change of Sebastian's demeanour is something the bubbles cannot hide. He tries to force his tangled tongue to form a coherent question, but Moriarty tuts loudly._ _

__“You can ask me about release once you've dressed and completed your studies for the day. I don't reward lazy brats.”_ _

__Sebastian pouts and drops his arms heavily against the side of the bathtub. Leaning on them he softly grumbles, “Trust me, if you would just fuck me I'd show you how _not lazy_ I could be.”_ _

__Moriarty laughs again. He stoops and leaves a handprint cutting through Seb's bubbles when he slaps the blond's wet quad. “Show me how well you can study and perhaps I'll show you how hard you can climax; how about that?”_ _

__The bubbles cannot hide the respond Sebastian's body gives before his lips can shape any intelligible words._ _


	16. The Unfairness Of It All

Professor Moriarty hovers over Sebastian for a while as the blond studies. “I expect at least three merit grades out of you if you want any sort of reward,” the Irishman drawls.

Sebastian sighs and nods, glancing up at the handsome devil then back at some footnotes. “Yes, sir.”

Moriarty gives Seb a pet then stretches theatrically. “It's time I left,” the brunet says, sweeping slowly from the room. “Work beckons.”

Sebastian eyes the timetable the devil has produced for him, which is as strict as the blond can expect from its creator. Seb grimaces then rocks his hips and looks up with a hopeful expression. “I really have to study all day?”

“Any ideas about using your hand and I'll lock up your favourite toy before I go,” Professor Moriarty warns from the doorway.

Sebastian bites his lip and wisely focuses on his coursework.

Unwisely, he finds himself getting bored after a few hours. He is not used to sitting still for so long, having become utterly accustomed to his usual gruelling schedule of university, two jobs and army training.

Still, his belly's happy for once. It's amazing what not having a stomach gnawing away at him in sharp hunger can do for his ability to navigate and cleverly regurgitate complex ideologies.

Sebastian is bored stiff without even a grumbling stomach to talk to. He pokes at his midriff absently and wonders how much he can eat before he stops looking like he typically starves himself on purpose.

Of course, having his hand anywhere near his naval is a hand far too close to Sebastian's lap to avoid his mind wandering or his blood flowing. Seb groans and puts both of his palms flat on Professor Moriarty's desk.

_Don't touch._

Sebastian sighs and squirms impatiently in his seat. Repeating the order in his head inclines him to do the exact opposite of its literal meaning. It may not be the worst mantra he has ever heard but it is undoubtedly the most frustrating.

_Don't touch don't touch don't you dare touch._ Sebastian wishes Moriarty had chained his hands in a way that took the choice away from him entirely. Then again, that might be even worse torture.

Seb leans back defeatedly in his chair and moans. He's not just going to get his bottom smacked. If he plays with himself there is no excuse that isn't going to prompt Professor Moriarty to make him strip, bend over the bed, take a _belting_ , and then admit out loud that he needs to be put in chastity in future.

Sebastian sits for a while wondering whether his eerie, dark-haired captivating devil will know should he get up from the desk, escape the room, and flee. For quite some time Sebastian does not dare, and then Jacob brings him food.

“The boss said not to send you downstairs for lunch; that you'd be busy studying,” the footman says.

Sebastian nods and wonders what to say in response that might stave off the inevitable return to boredom, but Mörsten does not wait for a conversation. Sebastian reluctantly eats alone (as slowly as possible at first, then indecorously swiftly because it is delicious and he's a growing, ever hungry young man) then reluctantly returns to his books. His dire, set by the one literature professor he despises, books. The energy given by lunch helps Sebastian through another hour or two, but he feels terribly, inescapably bored.

Emboldened by the monotony, Sebastian leaves the desk briskly and decides in a bold instance of naked stupidity to explore.

For all the servants the Moriarty siblings have the large house is rather quiet. Seb is uncertain whether the absence of companionship is worth the lack of witnesses to his direct, inarguable disobedience. _Disobedience that shall surely get him spanked_ , his knotted stomach reminds him.

One of the rooms Sebastian enters smells of familiar chemicals and his brow crinkles as he tries to place the source. A servant polishing silver perhaps?

Dragoslav. Most of the male servants look vaguely uniform (strong and somber-looking, with something a little cool, wicked or cruel around the eyes) but Sebastian can tell: the blond recognises the scars across the back of the man's scalp. A number of the Moriarty household's staff have markers that do not suggest an entirely respectable past, whether those happen to be healed injuries that look particularly violent or certain questionable tattoos. The chef is missing two fingers. 

Sebastian does not worry about any of that. The entire staff seem to know his sole desire is to be belittled and buggered by their master (well, and perhaps also tormented by Jamie) and that seems more upsetting to him than the number of servants he thinks wear weapon holsters.

Seb approaches Dragoslav cautiously hopeful for company, then pauses. That smell instantly explains itself as the Serbian looks up from cleaning a number of powerful guns. Sebastian does not know what to say. Training for the army as he has been Seb is not unfamiliar or especially afraid of guns, but he does know that these are not the sort rich men take to destroy the odd pheasant with.

Dragoslav makes a face but does not seem overly concerned. “You is _supposed_ to be studying.”

Sebastian swallows and draws closer. “I was bored.”

Drago rolls his eyes. “You is getting yourself smacked when the boss is back.”

Seb bites his lip, feels his cheeks turn a little pink, then does his best to shrug. “I know.”

Dragoslav chuckles. “You is liking it then? That is okay.”

Sebastian looks down at his feet, tummy squirming. “I guess so...”

“Is okay.” Drago sets down an oiled cloth and meets Sebastian's shy gaze. The Serbian nods and chooses his words carefully. “You are alright. The boss is… not a nice man, but he only hurt you. He likes you very much.”

Sebastian realises the guns should scare him but they don't. Drago's words heat something in the blond's chest and he feels oddly safe. Sebastian nods and takes a seat at Dragoslav's elbow. “May I help?”

Dragoslav accepts and they sit in comfortable silence for some time. Seb welcomes the opportunity to sift through his thoughts quietly and finds the task itself soothing. It is not something one would typically call domestic, but the smell of gun oil and the stale residue on blatantly fired (and heavily used, they are covered in dents and scratches and smears) guns makes Sebastian feel comfortable.

Drago sends the blond back upstairs to study afterwards with a soft smirk and a deliberate use of proper grammar. Dragoslav is right that the Professor is not to be fooled, and when the dark-eyed devil arrives home in time for dinner Sebastian finds himself feeling much less cavalier about the forewarned spanking.

Professor Moriarty's look frightens Seb a little. “Once you've filled your little tummy, young man, I am going to take you upstairs and lie you on said little tummy. If you give me even one terrible excuse over our meal I shall ensure you also have to _sleep_ on your belly. Do you follow, Se- _bas_ -tian?”

Sebastian feels a thrill of fright and excitement that makes him lower his eyes swiftly and nod. Embarrassment makes Seb tongue-tied. He feels a little light-headed.

At the opposite end of the table, equally as far from him as Moriarty is, Jamie scoffs. “Anyone would think you're keeping your mouth closed to get yourself pinned over the dinner table, Basher.”

Seb's mouth goes dry and he feels his blood follow its usual routes. “I meant, 'yes sir, I follow.'”

The burn of Moriarty's gaze keeps the napkin on Sebastian's lap tented for most of the meal. Afterwards Jamie rises and smirks widely on her way out of the room. “Snap me a picture of him when you're done, will you?” she says to her brother.

Professor Moriarty looks at Sebastian then gives an unkind smile in return. “I'll send you a few, if you don't tell me what you'll do with them.”

Jamie's laughter lingers afterwards in the air.

Sebastian squirms and looks at his hands uneasily as the table is cleared. He is glad Jamie won't be present to witness firsthand anything coming to him, but he's also not convinced that he wants to be left alone with the devil he disobeyed earlier.

Moriarty stands and snaps his fingers. Seb swallows and follows him upstairs with an uncomfortable mixture of fear and longing.

The professor takes Sebastian's ear and tugs him towards the bed. “You can disrobe this instant, little boy.”

Sebastian casts Moriarty a helpless look and reluctantly obeys. The professor and Jamie have between them provided Seb with a whole new wardrobe and the blond fumbles with the stiff new button of his fly. It's not the only stiffness in that region.

Professor Moriarty takes Sebastian's belt and folds it sharply with an audible noise that seems to travel physically up Seb's spine. Moriarty chuckles softly at the sight of the younger man's bottom clenching with nervousness, then the professor clears his throat and affects to seem stern.

“You understand why I am making you study, don't you?” asks Moriarty.

Sebastian instantly feels guilty. His hypnotic Irishman has rearranged Seb's life to give him the studying time (and everything else) that he needs… and Sebastian had the audacity to squander it citing _boredom_.

“I'm a total brat,” Sebastian says ashamedly. 

Moriarty's lips curl and he fixes Seb with a different sort of look. “Well, yes, pet, but I certainly have a few cures for that.”

Sebastian chuckles softly. “You think a few welts'll make me a better person?”

“Oh, is it welts you're after?” asks the professor with a sharklike smile.

Seb flinches and anxiously covers his bottom. He bites his lip and looks at the ceiling as increased bloodflow makes his private parts tingle, then he deliberately forces his hands down to his sides. “Maybe,” says the blond.

Moriarty's dark eyes glitter. “I think I can get my point across in a way that doesn't include welts.”

Sebastian visibly shivers. He doesn't dare question further.

The Irish devil smiles at him. “Now, then. I should hardly need to tell you to assume the proper position, should I Se- _bas_ -tian?”

Sebastian feels cold and hot all at once. He nervously bends over the bed and once he remembers to do so squeaks out a belated, “Yes, sir!”

“Good boy,” says Moriarty. He teasingly places the folded belt across Seb's bottom with just enough pressure to feel the stiff leather. “Daddy shouldn't have to leather your bare bottom for not doing your homework, should I, Seb...as...ti...an?”

Sebastian presses his face down into the bed and hates how his groin pulses at that. He has issues. “No, sir!”

The sudden force of a first slap from the new belt momentarily takes Sebastian's breath away. Seb gasps and after a beat his weight in response to the fiery sting.

“And yet here I am having to spank. Your. Bare. Bum. For not doing your coursework,” Professor Moriarty scolds. He emphasises his point with a few more fierce spanks and ignores the way Seb makes a muffled response into the duvet.

“You keep telling me that you're a big boy, Se- _bast_ -ian.” Spank. “You tell me that you're all grown up, and don't need me to make your decisions.” _Spank_. “So _why. _Is. It.” _Spank, spank, spank._ “That I have to _bare_ and _redden_ this. Pretty. Little. Bottom!” Spank. _Spank_. Spank! “To persuade you to do. Your. Damned. Course. Work?”__

__Sebastian hisses and groans into the mattress as the older man spanks him increasingly forcefully. Each blow is a white hot stripe of pain across his vulnerable cheeks which fades into a throbbing ache._ _

__“ _You. Need. To. Do. Your. Course. Work. Seb. Ast. Ian_ ,” Professor Moriarty snarls. He puts the belt down on the bed in view of the blond and begins to slap Seb's hot, painful bottom with a bare hand. “ _You're_ the one who chose the course, Sebastian. _You're_ the one who wants to pass well. You have put _so. Much. Work_. In before now. It is in _your_ best interest not to let all your efforts go to waste, little boy. _Don't. You. Agree?_ ”_ _

__“Yes, daddy! I'm sorry!”_ _

__The words leap from Sebastian's mouth almost by themselves. The magnetic Irishman's painfully accurate points and the unbearable intimacy of the hand spanking have done peculiar things to Seb's brain and groin._ _

__Moriarty chuckles and lessens the harshness of his smacks. “As well you ought to be, young man. Your daddy would _like_ to do nice things with you but if you insist upon being naughty I am absolutely going to punish you.”_ _

__Sebastian squirms and feels grateful for the chance to catch his breath. “I don't _mean_ to be naughty… sir...”_ _

__Professor Moriarty gives Seb's red bottom a squeeze. “Let's see if I can't find you a more effective reminder than a stingy little arse, shall we?”_ _

__Sebastian's breath catches. “...Like how?” he asks warily._ _

__Moriarty turns and takes out a bottle. The _click_ of its cap makes the breath catch in Seb's throat. The brunet says, “Like I slick up your desperate little hole and _edge_ you until it's lights out.”_ _

__Sebastian spins around instantly, an arch of glittering precum moving with him and captivatingly catching the light. “Are you… Are you serious?” Seb pants._ _

__The dark-eyed devil pours some lubricant out onto his (still hot from spanking Seb's bottom) hand. “Oh yes,” says Moriarty. “I'm going to force my fingers into you for _hours_ , Seb- _bast_ -ian, and you are going to beg me to let you cum.”_ _

__Sebastian lets out a shuddering breath and unconsciously spreads his thighs. He looks up at Moriarty with hopeful, pleading eyes._ _

__Moriarty smirks. He shakes his head wickedly. “I'm not going to let you cum. I am going to _torture_ you, Seb- _ast_ ian, and then I am going to send you to brush your teeth, put you into your jammies, and tuck you into bed.”_ _

__Sebastian jolts forwards, appalled, “But-!”_ _

__Professor Moriarty pats Seb's face unsympathetically. “Hush, now. You'll be begging soon enough. And I want you to _remember_ this, Seb- _ast_ -ian: if you had been a good boy who finished all of his coursework, _I would have. Let. You. Cum..._ ”_ _


	17. This Wasn't Even In The Footnotes Of Discipline And Punish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longer wait but a longer chapter... forgive me?

Sebastian wakes with a start, a firm pressure on his throat.

“Shh, s'just me,” soothes that familiar Irish lilt.

Sebastian stills at once but his heart continues to pound within his chest. The blond is half-asleep still and his nostrils are filled with the heady scent of the dark-eyed devil above him. Sebastian is not a small young man by any means but the professor's slim arm holds him as well as any iron bar might: without exerting any effort at all.

Sebastian raises his brows in helpless question at the devil.

Moriarty is not a cuddler, and tends to only draw close to Seb to tease or threaten. Tonight the professor pulls back from pinning Sebastian down only to throw Seb onto his furthest side and slide a spry arm back under the blond's thick, warm neck. Making no comment about the suddenly swift tick of Sebastian's startled pulse (and normally the Irishman loves to point out the effect he has) Moriarty's hips snap against Seb's broad back snugly.

He is warm and solid. A flesh and blood man (or so Moriarty currently appears) close enough that Sebastian can feel the steady beat of the professor's heart against his taunt, broad back. In the nights before Professor Moriarty tended to avoid much night time contact almost as if by not touching the devil did not truly exist except as a figment of Seb's overactive imagination.

Sebastian breathes shallowly; he dares not do anything else lest he disturb this unusual and extremely welcome contact.

Moriarty's chin -lightly stubbled at this hour- grazes Sebastian's throat as he cradles the blond in the narrow crook between his arm and chest. Soft lips tingle Seb's ear with a whisper that is little more than breath, “Go back to sleep, Se- _bast_ -ian...”

The blond grunts softly. He is warm and comfortable and the only thing that feels better than the sheets against his skin is his handsome devil _against his skin _. Sebastian strongly wants to question this unusually intimate bedtime arrangement -as if being played with earlier was not intimate enough- but he chooses instead to prolong the contact by saying nothing at all. He pushes back into Moriarty's warm chest happily.__

__The professor makes an unfamiliar noise in his throat something like surprise and wry pleasure. Moriarty moves his lips away from Seb's ear and gets comfortable as though not intending to move away._ _

__It makes Sebastian's chest tighten with pleasure. “G'night, sir,” the blond murmurs._ _

__Seb feels the man's eyelashes flutter against his thick shoulder. “Sweet dreams, pet,” Moriarty responds softly._ _

__When morning eventually comes Sebastian is surprised to find that his memories of being spooned to sleep during the middle of the night were not in fact a fabulous dream. The blond finds he has a pale, slim arm slung around his neck; which at some point he has wrapped both strong arms around to keep it close._ _

__Sebastian flinches and breaks away guiltily. It is never _his_ choice when he and the professor share skin contact. He is here entirely at Moriarty's whim and does not want to change that._ _

__The white hand before Seb's face flexes. “Settle down now, Se- _bast_ -ian; my circulation is perfectly fine,” Moriarty drawls._ _

__Sebastian twists around and sees the dark-haired devil is indeed still attached, if not as tightly curled around him as last night. Moriarty has clearly been awake for some time judging by the alert way the Irishman scrolls languidly along his phone screen using his other, free, hand._ _

__“Never woken up as the little spoon before,” Seb blurts._ _

__Moriarty half-turns his head and stares through the blond disparaging of something that may not be Sebastian's confession. “You were humping me in your sleep,” the devil says coolly. “You were making quite a mess.”_ _

__Sebastian squirms. “What do you expect when you do all of that to me then don't let me cum?”_ _

__The professor raises his brows but does not seem annoyed. “I _expect_ you to behave.”_ _

__Sebastian swallows. His nerves prickle in expectation of punishment… but Moriarty does not move._ _

__“Stop looking at me like that,” the professor says calmly. “If you are quite awake now you can take a shower. Daddy's busy.”_ _

__The blonde young man feels a sting at the dismissal and wishes he had curled back into Moriarty's arm and feigned sleep. Sebastian craves affection as much as any of the other gifts the Irish devil permits him and the chill air as Seb pulls himself out from the heat of Moriarty's side and the cozy cocoon of bedding around their legs feels like a punishment in itself._ _

__Sebastian tries not to look too pathetic and needy about it all. He straightens his back and walks towards the bathroom._ _

__Sebastian senses dark eyes on his body and feels some comfort. He turns in the doorway and tilts up his chin a little. Trying to exude desirability Seb purrs, “Door open or closed?”_ _

__Moriarty's eyes are back on his phone. “Close the door over or you'll have steam ruining my décor.” The devil smirks, and Sebastian's sinking heart leaps as Moriarty adds, “When I want you, Se- _bast_ -ian, I'll have you.”_ _

__Sebastian obediently closes the bathroom door behind himself. He feels a giddy little thrill in his chest at the possessive certainty in the Irish devil's drawl._ _

__Professor Moriarty is still on his phone when Sebastian returns, flushed, in a monogrammed towel. The brunet does not look up and does not seem to have moved, but one of the shirts Jamie bought is lying out on the bed with a pair of red underpants._ _

__“Do I need to call my valet or can you manage buttons like a big boy?” Moriarty taunts._ _

__Seb looks away quickly in embarrassment and exasperatedly notes that he feels oddly pleased at the mocking attention. To hide his discomfort Sebastian quickly picks up the pants and pulls them on. They are a very soft fabric and hug him closely. They feel wonderful._ _

__Sebastian bites his lower lip quickly. Feeling wonderful down there is only going to get him an obvious dark patch._ _

__Professor Moriarty drops his phone down lightly. “Let's see if red panties can remind you what a red bottom I'll give you if you're naughty again today, Se- _bast_ -ian, darling.”_ _

__They're not panties: they're short boxer briefs. Sebastian understands the devil is deliberately degrading him and feels doubly embarrassed by how much he enjoys it._ _

__“I am _not_ talking to myself, Se- _bast_ -ian,” the professor says, stalking away from the bed towards the blond._ _

__Sebastian takes a step backwards and quickly says, “I… I'll bear in mind the importance of good behaviour, Sir.”_ _

__“ _I'll_ bare your bottom and give you a good spanking that my staff, my neighbours, and the end of the street shall hear if you can't follow my rules, young man,” Professor Moriarty counters._ _

__Sebastian's ears turn red in misery and excitement. His mouth feels dry. “Yes sir.”_ _

__The Irishman comes close and Seb feels his own pulse instantly race. “The words you are looking for, little boy,” Moriarty says dangerously, “are, 'Yes _thank you, Daddy_.'”_ _

__Sebastian shivers, then his chill instantly disappears as his neck and even between his fingers feels far too warm. Surely there is far too much blood in his hard prick to make him blush to his _fingertips_?_ _

__He is painfully tongue-tied, and terribly aware that his prolonged silence might get him a trip over the smaller man's lap before they even breakfast._ _

__Sebastian looks at the ceiling and the floor uncomfortably. “Yes, thank you, Daddy. You're good to me,” he says meekly._ _

__Professor Moriarty grins. It's his predatory, hypnotic grin that makes it clear that he recognises and enjoys Sebastian's flustered frustration. “I am. Now finish dressing like my good little boy and I'll let you come downstairs to eat with me before I go to work.”_ _

__Sebastian looks at the clothing on the bed. There is a pair of socks and a crisp white shirt with a tail that will only partly cover his red bottom. There are no trousers. Sebastian dresses to the sound of the devil's morning ablutions and notes he feels awkwardly like a hormonal schoolboy in the white shirt._ _

__Moriarty returns looking as fuckable as always and begins dressing. He has an awful lot of expensive-looking suits for an educator, and a very big closet._ _

__“Very cute,” the professor says as he eyes Sebastian up with open amusement. “Do you feel silly?”_ _

__“Yes sir… um,” Sebastian clears his throat and looks at his toes, “yes, daddy.”_ _

__The handsome Irishman gives a small nod. “Good. Perhaps we won't have any more incidents of you wandering off when you ought to be studying, _now shall we?_ ”_ _

__Sebastian swallows and gets the point. “I'll be good,” he lies hurriedly._ _

__“Excellent,” says Moriarty, “because I would _hate_ to have to dress you in nothing but a collar and a chastity cage to persuade you to stay at your desk and write.” The devil's wide, wicked smile says he wouldn't hate such a thing even one little bit._ _

__Sebastian whimpers reflexively, achingly aroused._ _

__Moriarty beckons. “Come along, little one. Let's get some brain food in your tummy to help you think through your decisions.”_ _

__Sebastian follows with bare legs and naked interest. He has little expectation that he will be able to behave as ordered for the entire day, but he hopes he can get through a fair amount of coursework._ _

__Seb watches the professor eat. The brunet is a captivating creature to observe in any situation. Moriarty seems to notice the blond's untouched plate more than Sebastian's rapt attention. The Irishman taps pointedly at Seb's plate without looking up._ _

__Sebastian quickly gets to eating, but it is difficult for him to stay focused. Swallowing reminds him of the dark-eyed devil's grip on his throat during the night and…_ _

__Professor Moriarty clears his throat. Seb blinks quickly, realising he has been caught staring._ _

__Moriarty raises his brows in stern question._ _

__“That's a really nice suit to wear to lecture in,” Sebastian blurts._ _

__The Irishman stares at him for an uncomfortable beat. “I said I was working,” Moriarty says with mocking mystery. “I didn't say I was going to class.”_ _

__“Oh,” Sebastian says. The professor points to Seb's plate and the blond bows his head over it with a pensive expression._ _

___What is he upto_? The question stays in Sebastian's mind when he later settles at his desk, and lingers even after seven thousand words and three papercuts. The blond supposes his somewhat benevolent devil patron may be helping PhD students or something equally reasonable, but Sebastian cannot help picture Moriarty with one of the guns Dragoslav let him polish. Or worse, doing unspeakable things to a far cleverer PhD student whilst Sebastian sits unattended and frustrated and insecure._ _

__The thoughts drive Seb from the room much as boredom had before._ _

__For a young man who has known so much privilege Sebastian is not without his insecurities. Having grown up in the expensive house of a confusingly mercurial father it makes it easy for Seb to question the likelihood of Professor Moriarty's affections and attentions being short-lived._ _

__The servants don't seem at all fazed by Sebastian's life here and he wonders about the young men Moriarty bedded before him. That opens a collection of other uncomfortable thoughts the blond has no real desire to fixate on today._ _

__Odd how being touched more than normal by the bewitching Irish devil has Sebastian feeling more touch-starved than usual. Sebastian is no child by any means but it is only recently that he has started to truly understand many of the awful romances he has read for the sake of 'appreciating fine literature'. Something about Moriarty draws and compels Seb in a way no one every really has before and being apart feels dreadfully unsettling._ _

__Sebastian remembers the story of Bluebeard. Had the protagonist just followed the rules she would not have been beheaded after seeing her new husband's room full of butchered and beheaded former wives. So many stories provide grizzly ends for characters who do not follow the dictated rules._ _

__Before, Sebastian never understood this. What motive could there be to risk so much by breaking rules when following them meant a perfectly reasonable life? Sebastian has broken a great many rules in his life, but the majority of those were not on mere whim nor idle curiosity._ _

__Still the young man wanders Moriarty's large house and knows that this choice surely cannot go well. Not for the likes of him._ _

__Agitation is a terrible thing._ _

__The smell of white spirit drifts through the corridor and flutters Sebastian's nostrils with its strength. Seb supposes it must foretell the near presence of another human. The sensible thing to do would be to turn back. Should he return to his – to _Moriarty's_ \- room it may lessen his inevitable punishment._ _

__Sebastian follows the smell anyway._ _

__The room is enormous yet crowded. Seb finds his way hindered by numerous canvases and several ornate, empty frames. Some of the pictures have dustsheets thrown over them and some paintings still seem to be wet._ _

__Many of them bear complete resemblance to famous paintings Sebastian has seen in museums or the private collections of men his father knows._ _

__The closer Sebastian approaches the more carefully he treads. As he steps out from behind a particularly enormous painting he sees Jamie's narrow back. Her golden hair is scrunched up in a messy ponytail and she stands regarding a work propped on a thick easel._ _

__Sebastian pauses and considers stepping back behind the shelter of the nearby large painting. He looks back and notes the row of windows beyond her are all thrown open to encourage the escape of fumes: she won't catch his reflection in the panes._ _

__“You're rather reckless of my brother's temper, aren't you, Basher?” Jamie announces calmly._ _

__Sebastian flinches in surprise and swallows. His mind is blank of an excuse._ _

__She half turns her blonde head. “It's alright: you've already broken his rules so you might as well join me for a while,” Jamie says. “Come tell me what you think.”_ _

__Sebastian warily regards the roiling of his stomach and meekly approaches Jamie's side. She throws out her arm to indicate her work. “Well?”_ _

__The painting is bright and lacks the clarity Seb expects from Jamie's brighter eyes. It also looks like a painting that went missing from the Ashmolean in 2000. “You've captured Cezanne's style,” Sebastian says. “I'm surprised it's to your tastes.”_ _

__Jamie finally turns and looks at him. Sebastian squirms inwardly at the way her appraising look manages to make her seem both impressed and pitying all at once._ _

__“It's a popular piece,” Jamie says at last. She drops with painful grace onto the stool before her easel and sits broodingly. Her eyes drift to the large painting above the marble fireplace._ _

__“A Baroque seems more your style,” Sebastian murmurs. “Elegant. Skillful.”_ _

__“' _The Adoration_ ' is one of the first paintings I ever replicated,” Jamie says._ _

__Sebastian nods. “They replicated it digitally a few years ago didn't they?”_ _

__“Clever things people can do now; it's practically cheating,” Jamie says with an odd smile. “It's much brighter than the original of course. There's only so much they could have risked cleaning and restoring a masterpiece.”_ _

__“It's a heck of a process,” Sebastian agrees. His father had many expensive old paintings mounted on their walls. They required expert handling and probably received more thoughtful treatment than Seb ever did in that place._ _

__“As is painting. I burned my first Caravaggio,” Jamie says dryly._ _

__Sebastian looks at her sidelong. She is not old enough to have helped the Sicilian mafia cut down Michaelangelo Caravaggio's ' _Nativity with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence_ ' during a raid in the late sixties, but there is something secretive and telling about Jamie's peculiar smile._ _

__Sebastian unconsciously pictures a young Jamie burning a forged copy of the stolen painting in the eighties. He feels such a strong urge to climb up on the fireplace and check the painting above it for rips along its edges akin to those of the original that he forces himself to step back._ _

__Jamie makes a soft noise of disquiet and moves an open jar of Parisian green paint further from the young man, closing it tightly as she does so. Sebastian gets the even odder feeling that her actions were protective more than scolding._ _

__“Am I interrupting?” he asks shyly._ _

__Jamie looks at him and shakes her head. “No, Bash, darling. Stay if you wish.”_ _

__Sebastian's lips twitch and he looks up at her through his lashes. “Will you tell on me?”_ _

__“I'll do more than that; I'll paint you,” Jamie says._ _

__Sebastian chews his lip. “You want me to sit for you?”_ _

__Her eyes glitter. “I might as well take a reminder whilst you still can.”_ _

__Sebastian winces. “Don't remind me.”_ _

__Jamie chuckles and clears some space. “You wouldn't provoke him if you didn't enjoy it,” she says. Her voice holds no note of judgement but there's definitely a purr of something dangerous._ _

__“Why do I always feel like you might eat me alive?” Sebastian mumbles._ _

__Jamie unfastens his shirt and although Seb freezes he lets her. “Perhaps you are not entirely stupid,” she says._ _

__The only chill Sebastian feels is from his blood neglecting his skin for other regions. “I suppose you think that's probably a compliment,” he mutters._ _

__She smirks at him. “You're a pretty boy and I'll enjoy painting you. Now you might as well drop your smalls; my brother's going to make you pull them down for your spanking anyway.”_ _

__Sebastian's face flames. “You could at least pretend not to enjoy it.”_ _

__“Whyever would I do that?” Jamie scoffs. “Now go bend over that box there and look over your shoulder at me. Shyly, like you're embarrassed you want to.”_ _

__Sebastian swallows and hates how his socked feet are already walking him over there even as he protests, “You're not helping matters,” he sighs as he leaks a slender trail of arousal over his thighs and the fabric draped over his designated box._ _

__“If my brother hasn't yet taught you that backchat will get you a sore tushy, Sebastian, I can always introduce you to the back of my hairbrush,” says Jamie._ _

__Seb pouts at her over his muscular shoulder. “I thought you said I was going to _sit_ for you whilst I still can. I look like I'm waiting to be mounted.”_ _

__Jamie wipes her hand on her borrowed shirt and lifts her phone. Sebastian tenses as she points it at him. “What else do you think I'm Snapping my brother?” she drawls._ _

__Sebastian's member twitches. “Do you know what he's going to do to me?” he groans._ _

__“I've an idea,” Jamie affirms. She picks up some charcoal and starts sketching some preliminary lines. “You ought to say thank you.”_ _

__Sebastian does not dare glower at her. He avoids her intense eye contact but it is difficult for him not to look at her at all. Glancing out at him from behind the easel all Seb can see are bare legs, a near naked shoulder, and her predatory gaze._ _

__Jamie sketches him calmly from behind her easel for some time before she speaks again. “Turn around,” she says. “Sit like you're considering touching yourself.”_ _

__“Not a chance,” Sebastian protests. His face is flaming. “You _know_ what he'll do to me if I touch my cock.”_ _

__“It's not been yours for some time, Basher,” Jamie smirks. She wipes her dirtied fingers on her shirt again then makes a show of unbuttoning herself this time. “Here. I'll make you feel less exposed.”_ _

__Sebastian's heart skips a beat and takes a vacation in his throat as he watches Jamie's stolen shirt fall to the floor. Hating (and loving) her easy command of him, Sebastian finds himself helplessly doing as he is told._ _

__He tries to cover his prominent hardness with his hand but Jamie makes an amused, stern tut of admonishment. Sebastian sighs, bites his lip, then handles himself carefully._ _

__“ _Like you're considering it_ , I said,” Jamie chides teasingly. “We both know you're not allowed to touch that.”_ _

__Sebastian makes a helpless noise. “But I need to,” he growls softly._ _

__Jamie raises her shaped brows. “Do you want me to touch you?” she asks._ _

__Sebastian regards her carefully. “Would you?”_ _

__“Put your hand away,” Jamie says._ _

__Seb lets go of himself reluctantly. “Would you?”_ _

__“I might,” Jamie says. She draws a few lines fresh, then this time she starts to paint._ _

__“This is torture,” Sebastian says at last. Her form is tauntingly beautiful._ _

__Jamie barely glances at him. “You can pet yourself enough to keep looking interested, but no more. I'm busy.”_ _

__Sebastian feels further frustration but bows to the relief of being able to stroke himself. The limited quantity of touching feels even more like punishment._ _

__Eventually Jamie steps away from her easel. Sebastian straightens his back hopefully, his edging making him feel as exhausted as he is excited. He blurts, “Can I..?”_ _

__Jamie smiles at him and his belly clenches horribly. It's a cruel smile._ _

__“When you have your three merits,” Jamie smirks._ _

__Sebastian's heart sinks._ _

__Jamie bends and picks up his discarded clothing. Light from the windows kisses her toned form as she does so and Seb finds his mouth growing dry again._ _

__Jamie throws him the clothes. “You've had enough fun. Let's have some lunch then you can hit the books like you should have been all along.”_ _

__“You're heartless,” Sebastian mumbles._ _

__Jamie crosses the distance between them and forcibly helps him dress. “ _You're_ in need of being wiped down, little boy,” she says. _ _

__“I wonder why that is,” Seb mumbles. Her hands on his body make his balls ache._ _

__Jamie laughs. “Sulk if you will. Perhaps I'll have your portrait hung by the front door so everyone can see what a wanton little masochist you are.”_ _

__Sebastian bites his lip in frustration as his prick visibly twitches. Jamie laughs again unkindly and takes his hand in a possessive grip._ _

__Sebastian is relieved to be settled into a chair for lunch for the opportunity to hide the dark patch on his eye-catching red briefs. Jamie is her usual unkind self during the meal but Seb cannot truly say he does not enjoy her teasing attentions._ _

__He feels the loss of her when he is stuck back behind his desk with essays to write, but that longing is nothing compared to the anticipation of Professor Moriarty's return. The question of what the devil is up to has been replaced by _what will he do_? Sebastian is fearful and excited and terrified and aroused and _confused_ and impatient…_ _

__Professor Moriarty greets the young blond early in the evening with a knowing gaze in those darkly glittering eyes. Even as Sebastian's gut sinks from that ominous look another part of the blond man's anatomy rises._ _

__Moriarty says nothing. He takes Sebastian's work and peruses it with a careful eye._ _

__“Redraft this section before dinner,” is all Moriarty says. He leaves the room without another glance and Sebastian dies a little._ _

__He does as he is told._ _

__Moriarty does not speak to Sebastian throughout much of dinner. It unnerves the blond no end and it is all Seb can do to hide his trembling hands in his lap after the meal. His position is a precarious one, Sebastian remembers, and he yet again chose to disobey._ _

__“I think Basher may cry if you don't give him his spanking,” Jamie announces with dry amusement._ _

__Sebastian blushes and looks to Moriarty anxiously. As scary as a good spanking is, being out of the devil's favour seems much worse._ _

__Moriarty merely smirks coolly. “Isn't it time you were getting your pyjamas, young man?” he asks._ _

__Sebastian swallows and gets up from his chair quickly. “Yes Sir, _Daddy_ ,” the blond responds, stressing the embarrassing word hopefully. Seb fears it won't be enough to tempt back the dark-haired devil's favour._ _

__Professor Moriarty arches a brow. “Oh, you think _now_ is the time to try to behave, do you, little one?”_ _

__Sebastian's stomach cramps. The intimidating devil's expression suggests Moriarty is not looking for an apology. Seb nervously retreats and scurries upstairs to obey._ _

__No one joins Sebastian for some time. The blond changes obediently into his pyjamas and waits nervously on the edge of the bed._ _

__Moriarty looks him up and down when he eventually chooses to appear. “Don't you look guilty,” the devil comments._ _

__Sebastian swallows. “I-”_ _

__“Have you brushed your teeth?” Moriarty interrupts._ _

__“I… No,” Seb admits warily._ _

__Moriarty gestures dismissively. “Off you pop. You don't have all night, young man.”_ _

__“Sorry, Daddy,” Sebastian mumbles. He quickly moves towards the en suite to obey._ _

__Moriarty is sitting on top of the bed when Seb returns. The duvet on the empty side is turned up for Sebastian, but other than that the professor barely spares the blond a glance. Instead Moriarty concentrates on his phone, and says nothing when Sebastian meekly approaches._ _

__Sebastian waits, but receives no acknowledgement. Feeling awkward, wary, and a little bit hurt, the blond drops onto the bed and slides his feet under the duvet._ _

__“Goodnight,” Moriarty says without looking away from the screen in his hands._ _

__Seb swallows. “You're… not going to punish me?” he asks._ _

__Professor Moriarty turns and gazes at the younger man intently. “If you throw away your education it hardly hurts me.”_ _

__Sebastian flinches and his eyes water as though he was just slapped. He takes a deep breath and fuzzily tries to find an appeasing response._ _

__Moriarty throws the duvet over Seb. Without a word the Irishman returns attention to his mobile._ _

__Sebastian takes another deep breath. “I'm sorry,” he says in a small, stark voice._ _

__“What are you telling me for?” Moriarty asks. “I only wasted a few hours helping you with your studies. You're the one who's lost years...”_ _

__Sebastian blinks back tears. “I didn't mean-”_ _

__“Didn't mean _what_ , young man?” Moriarty snaps. “I thought you worked hard for your goals, but here you have everything dumped in your lap and you cannot spend a few days knuckling down to get the grades you want?”_ _

__Sebastian's heart pounds in his chest. “I...” He bites his lip to try to force back his tears. “Do you want me to go?”_ _

__“Stay or leave as you please, Sebastian,” Moriarty says flatly._ _

__Sebastian almost forgets to breathe for a second, and then once he remembers to, he forgets how. His insides feel flayed and he splutters quietly as he tries to silence his rasping struggle for breath._ _

__The professor eyes Seb sidelong. “Try not to expire in my bedroom, Se- _bast_ -ian.”_ _

__“Sorry,” the younger man chokes. His eyelashes shine with tears._ _

__Still reclined against the headboard, Moriarty stares at the blond coolly before tilting up his chin and giving a disgruntled sigh through his nose. “What a fuss. I'm sure you've disappointed someone before, haven't you?”_ _

__Sebastian's breath catches again and he looks quickly at the ceiling in misery. There have not been many people in recent years whose opinions of Seb mattered to the blond. This sudden rejection hurts Sebastian. A lot._ _

__Moriarty sits up. “Se- _bast_ -ian? You're fussing terribly.”_ _

__Sebastian tries to apologise, but cannot help but cough and pant. His chest heaves as he tries to breathe properly._ _

__Moriarty tosses his phone down and pulls the younger, bigger man against his chest. “Breathe, 'Bastian. You're alright. I've got you.”_ _

__Sebastian feels a wave of humiliation and relief at being pulled into the Irishman's arms. He tries to speak, but can only gasp air._ _

__“I thought you were a cadet?” the professor chides softly. “Don't you get men screaming in your face and tossing over your bedroom?”_ _

__Yes, but those things seem entirely different to Sebastian. He has always had a remarkably thick skin for shouting and angry men and will enough to often go ignoring admonishment._ _

__Moriarty's disapproval, on the other hand, has cut Sebastian deeply. The Irishman rubs Seb's broad, rocking chest firmly. “Honestly, call yourself a grown man,” Moriarty scoffs mildly._ _

__“M'sorry...” Sebastian whimpers._ _

__“Shh, shh, you're not in trouble,” says Moriarty. “Well… You _are_ , you certainly are, young man, but we'll deal with that once you have calmed down, shall we?”_ _

__Sebastian shudders and nods. “I deserve-”_ _

__“Shh, I said,” Moriarty responds. He pets the blond firmly and Sebastian feels deeply grateful for the touch. “I am right here.”_ _

__They sit quietly as Sebastian's shaking shoulders gradually ease. Seb slumps against the professor and Moriarty continues to stroke the young man in firm reassurance._ _

__“Has that happened before?” Moriarty asks._ _

__“Not like that,” Sebastian says quietly. “I couldn't… couldn't breathe. But you weren't touching me. I don't...”_ _

__“Panic attack,” Moriarty says simply._ _

__Sebastian blinks. “But I don't… I'm not...”_ _

__Moriarty gives an unusually unthreatening smile and smooths Seb's hair. “You're just riddled with issues, aren't you, Tiger?”_ _

__Sebastian swallows. “I...”_ _

__“You don't like being told you're a disappointment: I got it,” says Professor Moriarty. “We'll find other ways to deal with your misbehaviour.”_ _

__Sebastian's eyes water again._ _

__Moriarty sighs. “Sensitive lump, aren't you, little boy? I'm not a nursemaid, and I'm not cuddly, but I'm here and I've got you,” he says. Regardless of his words Sebastian clings to the Irishman. Professor Moriarty rolls his eyes and rubs Seb's back slowly, saying, “No need to cry, little one, just breathe. I've got you. _I've got you_.”_ _

__Sebastian takes slow, deep breaths and meets the professor's dark eyes shakily. “Thanks… sir.”_ _

__Moriarty looks down his nose with a mildly stern look. “You wouldn't have gotten upset if you hadn't made me tell you off for being a naughty little boy.”_ _

__Sebastian nods and looks very sorry for himself. He is calming enough to begin to feel a sense of embarrassment again. He tries to shuffle away._ _

__Moriarty grabs the blond's chin. “If you're a good little boy for me I won't have to scold you, now will I?” he says._ _

__Sebastian shakes his head. “I'll try-”_ _

__“Didn't I tell you to shush?” the brunet devil questions. “Now I was going to put you to bed early for being a little brat anyway, and now I think an early night would be good for you. A rest after tiring yourself out like that. Do you agree with me, or are you going to get fussy again?”_ _

__Sebastian is quiet for a beat, then bravely asks, “Will you still hold me for a while? Please?”_ _

__Moriarty rolls his eyes. “When I decided I was having you this wasn't quite what I had in mind. But sure, Tiger, come here.”_ _

__The Irishman puts his discarded phone aside safely and curls protectively around Sebastian's bigger frame._ _

__“Why do you put up with me?” the blond asks. It's an off-the-cuff question, but once Sebastian has said it the words hang heavily in the air._ _

__“I like you,” the professor says casually. “You're cute and not entirely dull-witted, and you make some lovely noises when I smack your bottom.”_ _

__Sebastian presses his lips together feeling embarrassed but pleased. “I didn't think you'd go for 'cute'.”_ _

__Moriarty's dark eyes glitter as he considers. “Usually not. My tastes can run to the pliable and easily humiliated, but I wouldn't say you were entirely typical.”_ _

__“What's wrong with me?” Sebastian asks. “Is it because I'm bad at maths? Because-”_ _

__“You're not bad at maths or anything other than behaving yourself and finishing your coursework,” says Moriarty._ _

__“Oh. I've never been good at behaving,” says Sebastian, “but I _do try_ with my coursework.”_ _

__“Are you scared?” Moriarty asks._ _

__Sebastian stills. “Of what?”_ _

__“Your coursework,” says the professor. “If you finish your hand-ins you get grades that matter, and that's very intimidating for a lot of students.”_ _

__Sebastian thinks about his circumstances. He leans closer to the Irishman and mumbles, “Maybe.”_ _

__“You only need to be scared if you procrastinate and don't use your potential,” says Moriarty. “You are perfectly capable of doing well in your studies if you try.”_ _

__“What if I try and fail anyway?” Sebastian mumbles._ _

__“You're not going to fail,” Moriarty says. “I've read your work.”_ _

__Sebastian looks away. “After how much I've put in to get this degree, anything less than a first will feel like I failed.”_ _

__Moriarty pinches the larger young man's bottom. “Then do your bloody coursework!”_ _

__Seb yelps and pouts, rolling away but not straying far from the devil's tempting hand. “Fine, I will.”_ _

__The professor scoffs. “Don't think you've gotten off easily; I'm going to deal with you tomorrow.”_ _

__Sebastian edges closer. Aware but uncaring that it's likely to to get his bottom hit, Seb questions, “So does that mean tonight you'll be nice to me?”_ _

__Moriarty smirks and does not disappoint; he cracks his palm possessively off of Seb's cheek, which bounces even in the confines of those red pants. “You hardly want someone who'll be nice to you; I've seen what stimulates that cock of yours.”_ _

__Sebastian grins shyly. “You like it when I'm naughty though right? You want to punish me?”_ _

__Moriarty grips Seb's bottom territorially. “I don't hate it,” the brunet says smoothly._ _

__Sebastian flashes the devil a pure smile that makes Moriarty's dark eyes widen at its warmth. Moriarty sighs. “It's time you were sleeping,” he says gruffly. “You're going to get it tomorrow.”_ _

__Sebastian wriggles down the sheets until he is comfortable. “Get what?” he yawns._ _

__Moriarty pushes his arm under Sebastian's neck and lets the big man curl back against him. Moriarty pulls the cover over them both with his free hand then wraps that arm around Seb's warm, flat middle._ _

__He nips Seb's shoulder lightly with his teeth. “A bloody well-deserved punishment, is what,” the professor whispers._ _

__Sebastian kicks back his legs and tangles them with Moriarty's. “Deal.”_ _

__The professor stays awake to watch his blond sleep for a while, then lies in thought with Sebastian's warm body alongside his own. Moriarty is not a man who sleeps for long, but he spoons the blond for as much time as he can comfortably bear it before settling away to actually rest. He does not leave the bed immediately after waking._ _

__Professor Moriarty sits up against his headboard and reaches for his phone. Asleep still Sebastian nonetheless grumbles and rolls over to find his living pillow. Moriarty gives the young man a mildly amused look as Sebastian curls himself tightly around a pale Irish thigh._ _

__“Enjoy the peace, pet,” Moriarty whispers. “You're going to know what's hit you later.”_ _

__Some injuries are not felt until afterwards, and many do not notice a trap until they've tread into it. Had Sebastian known what Moriarty had planned for him the blond probably wouldn't have changed a thing._ _

__“I believe you are familiar with the concept of consequences?” Professor Moriarty asks Seb when the blond is awake._ _

__Sebastian grimaces. “Already? If you're going to punish me this early in the morning you could at least start by pushing your dick in my mouth.”_ _

__“You'll be getting a bar of soap in your mouth, you little harlot, if you think you're going to speak to your Daddy like that when you're already in big trouble, young man,” the professor warns._ _

__Sebastian wisely swallows his wisecrack retort. “Understood, sir.”_ _

__Moriarty swats Sebastian almost affectionately. “Go about whatever business you require to in the bathroom. I'm going to keep you rather busy this morning.”_ _

__Seb blinks hopefully and pads out of the room to obey. He returns swiftly though: his curiosity is called by the intriguing rattle of metal in the Irish devil's hands._ _

__Without a word Moriarty wraps a chain around the headboard and (as Seb dives across the room and onto the mattress with the enthusiasm of a seventies detective sliding across a car bonnet) fastens it to Sebastian's quickly offered wrists. Seb beams as he is restrained, then tests the binding inquisitively. He has quite a lot of give for what looks to be an intended restraint._ _

__Moriarty smirks at Sebastian's puzzled expression. “Trust me, that is quite deliberate and I know precisely what I am doing,” the brunet drawls._ _

__“I'm sure you do,” Sebastian says dubiously, “I'm just wondering what your plan is.”_ _

__“I'm sure it's worse if you know beforehand,” Professor Moriarty winks. He approaches the bed again with something shiny in his hands._ _

__Sebastian swallows loudly enough to be heard. “Is… that what I think it is?”_ _

__“I dare say,” Moriarty says silkily. He straddles Sebastian's muscular thighs, which are warm and shaking with anticipation. “This is going to hurt a little.”_ _

__Sebastian cries out in sudden pain as Moriarty's wild devil teeth bear down on the fragile skin of his neck, then Moriarty pulls away enough to show Sebastian the metal cage he is enclosing around Seb's favourite bits._ _

__“What'd you bite me that _hard_ for?” Sebastian winces. “You could have worked up to that.”_ _

__“You were rather too engorged by proceedings for a comfortable fit,” answers Moriarty. He locks the chastity cage around Sebastian's mildly traumatised cock with a faux sympathetic smirk. “The point is that you _can't_ get too excited whilst that pretty cock is locked up in this.”_ _

__“I'm quite okay with being excited,” Sebastian says cheekily. He is already forgetting the throbbing ache of his neck in favour of whatever his dark-haired devil may do to him. “Healthy young heart and everything.”_ _

__Sebastian looks far too pleased for a supposed punishment. “If you don't want me to call Jamie in here to take a picture of you like this I suggest you treat this situation with some respect,” Professor Moriarty warns._ _

__Seb's smile shrinks a little. “Jesus, no thanks.” He considers. “Did you like the picture?”_ _

__“Never mind the picture right now, little one, I'm not finished with you,” Moriarty says. He lightly slaps Seb's inner thigh and fetches something else._ _

__“What have you got now?” Sebastian asks with a mixture of hope and suspicion._ _

__Moriarty forces Seb's legs apart commandingly and shows the bottle he is holding. Pouring some of its contents into his hand the brunet lightly answers, “Lube.”_ _

__Sebastian spreads his thighs further with delight. “Reallyarewegoingto-”_ _

__“Breathe and of course not,” Moriarty says. “You've been naughty, so I need to ensure you pay full attention to your punishment.”_ _

__Sebastian squirms and wriggles his hips closer as the dark-eyed man strokes and teases his exposed hole as though it has long been his usual haunt. “I can play penty of attention,” Seb stammers. “Plenty. I can play… pay… _plenty_ of attention. I am very interested.”_ _

__Moriarty slicks a finger generously and pushes the tip in (Seb's breath instantly catches) and out of Sebastian's relaxing opening slowly… surprisingly gently. “Are you?” the brunet deadpans._ _

__“Extremely,” Sebastian pants._ _

__“I couldn't tell,” Moriarty lies. He pushes up to the first knuckle and presses his lips together softly at the tightness and the heat. Sebastian's tight heat._ _

__Sebastian makes wide-eyed eye contact and does his best to push his hips closer._ _

__“Don't be greedy or this will hurt,” the professor murmurs._ _

__Sebastian whines loudly in protest as he fears voicing comprehendible argument will result in something horrible, like having Moriarty's touch withdraw._ _

__The brunet scoffs and withdraws anyway to add more lube. He works up terribly slowly to the second knuckle of his dextrous finger._ _

__“Moremoremore,” Sebastian whispers._ _

__Moriarty smirks and takes his own sweet time. Sebastian cannot help but exclaim when he feels the sudden, deep pleasure that tells him Professor Moriarty has finally pushed in close enough to reach the third knuckle. The skin of Moriarty's hand is slick with lube and as he twists around his impaling finger the lubricant grazes the underside of Seb's balls. Sebastian can feel the flesh rub against each other, and that is an unfamiliar experience with the metal ring encasing his balls tightly, but he is far more focused on the slowly crooking finger within himself._ _

__“Like that?” the professor asks with interest._ _

__“Oh, yes Sir...” Sebastian agrees._ _

__“Does my little brat want a second finger?” Moriarty asks._ _

__“ _Please_ Daddy,” Sebastian says at once._ _

__The Irishman withdraws only to the fist knuckle and rocks his hand shallowly as he adds more lube. Sebastian cannot focus on anything other than the perfect moment but does not know where to look. Watching Professor Moriarty push two fingers inside him is a sight that will fuel his fantasies for years, but how can Seb watch that when it means missing the expressions flitting across Moriarty's wonderful face?_ _

__Sebastian has to look back down as he feels the stretch of fingers being scissored inside him. It doesn't hurt; the devil Moriarty is moving far too slowly for that. Still, it is an intense sensation and it certainly has Seb's attention._ _

__“Am I taking too long for your liking, Seb- _bast_ -ian?” Moriarty asks in an amused, sexually heated drawl._ _

__“Absolutely,” Sebastian gasps, raising his thighs unconsciously, “but keep doing what you're doing. It's… _so_ good...”_ _

__Moriarty feigns surprise. “Oh dear; you mean you don't want more?”_ _

__“Oh fuck me I want more!” Sebastian blurts. “Can I have more?”_ _

__The professor bares his teeth and sloshes more thick lubricant over his fingers as they slide in and out of Sebastian's hot opening. Working it around until sufficiently slick, Moriarty watches Seb throw back his head in pleasure. The devil pushes in three fingers._ _

__Sebastian's half-closed eyes fly open and he smiles. “S'good.”_ _

__“Of course it is,” Moriarty says. His fingers performs no mere balter but instead rock with skillful accuracy. They know Sebastian's body as though it was built to be the devil's own glove._ _

__Sebastian falls back against the pillows and the scent of Moriarty in his nostrils makes the experience even better. Seb's senses are heightened and the torture of not being able to get truly hard _hurts_ but it is not an entirely bad sensation. He's still leaking precum through his cage, dripping like a St Bernard's jowls at a barbecue, and the liberal use of lube is sliding down to pool between his cheeks._ _

__Moriarty's clever fingers rock ever so slowly. The talented devil twists his wrist, makes Sebastian feel something the blond didn't know he could without being fully erect, and then eventually, _eventually_ , the professor pushes in a fourth finger._ _

__Sebastian can hardly bear it, breathing like he has a fever and his desperate cock is so wet it might rust its way out of the confining metal of its new cage. It's perfect._ _

__Professor Moriarty rocks his arm up and down with welcome precision. Lubricant and precum coats his thighs too. The air smells of arousal and lube and the salty tang of Sebastian's sweat and the leather padding of the cuffs chaining Seb to the bed and the scent of Moriarty's pillows and cock cock cock Sebastian smells his ecstatic, miserably tortured cock._ _

__“Do you know what I'm going to do to you _now_?” the devil asks._ _

__Sebastian arches his back. “I'm hoping it's either push in 'til your elbow makes my bellybutton an outie, or take me _hard_ with your dick… Please. Daddy, sir.”_ _

__Moriarty chuckles. “You want me to fist you, do you?”_ _

__“I want you to climb inside and wear me as a hat so long as I get to cum,” Sebastian whines._ _

__“You're such a greedy, ridiculous boy,” Moriarty chortles. His eyes glint in a way that makes Seb nervous. His own half-shut eyes widen as the Irishman reaches for something new._ _

__“What's that?” Sebastian pants. He thinks he should perhaps panic but he doesn't have the sufficient bloodflow to his brain to process threats._ _

__“Something that'll do you good,” says Moriarty._ _

__“How?” Seb asks warily, his arousal not lessened by his foreboding._ _

__“It's a punishment you need,” says Moriarty. “You agree you need your Daddy to discipline you, don't you?”_ _

__Sebastian moans. “Oh, absolutely.” So far he has managed to prevent himself throwing his legs over the professor's shoulders -fearful of _consequences_ \- but he does so now. He's in heaven. Torturous heaven._ _

__Moriarty meets Seb's flustered eyes and replaces that bewitched hand with something cold, and hard. Sebastian's feet fall to the mattress.  
As the blond gasps and tries to adjust the professor holds up a remote control. Sebastian watches it with delighted, horrified eyes._ _

__The professor curls his lips wickedly. “This is to keep you alert and ensure you don't become too distracted.”_ _

__“Distracted for what?” Sebastian asks breathily._ _

__Moriarty gets up and walks away from the bed. Sebastian feels a moment of panic but the professor fetches some of Seb's study materials and carries them over._ _

__As the young blond gives him a 'you must be joking… you're not joking are you' look the professor cheerfully drops the objects down onto Sebastian's lap. Seb hisses, the weight of his tablet and the books not nearly so unpleasant as the way the sudden pressure makes his cage pinch._ _

__The smirking devil standing before Seb looks in no way apologetic. “Now you understand why you get to have the use of your hands.”_ _

__Sebastian has nothing clever to say. He gives the brunet devil a horrified look as it becomes clear that this is not merely a joke._ _

__“Get to work,” says Professor Moriarty. “If you're a good boy I might let you out later for a bathroom break.”_ _

__“You're a sadistic fuck,” Seb protests, not insultingly._ _

__“And you'll remember that for quite some time if I soap your mouth before I gag it,” Moriarty warns. “Watch your mouth, Tiger.”_ _

__Sebastian sighs and tries to ignore the ache of his delighted, frustrated, constricted cock. “Yes Daddy.” The blond returns his attention to his coursework in defeat._ _

__The professor turns towards the door._ _

__“Wait, you're not _leaving_ me here like this are you?” Sebastian yelps._ _

__“Of course I am,” says Moriarty. “You've brought this on entirely through your own foolish actions, Se- _bast- _ian. Now I'd keep my voice down if I were you: you don't want to draw the attention of any of my staff when you're like this, do you?”___ _

____Sebastian's lips flounder before he gives up in defeat._ _ _ _

____Moriarty disappears. Sebastian stays tied to the bed, clammy and frustrated and feeling very poorly treated. Even if he dared try to remove his chastity device he knows he cannot, and the lube leaking down his crack is not helping his upset._ _ _ _

____He's going to have to do coursework. He has no idea when Moriarty will come back._ _ _ _

____He is _still_ dripping copious amounts of precum._ _ _ _

____The blond loves every horrible second of it._ _ _ _


	18. Bet You Never Read This In Your 19th Century Yellow-Covered Books

When time rolls around for exam results to be announced across the year Sebastian is a nervous wreck. He is unusually quiet except when his temper flashes in ways that the other occupants of the Moriarty house are quick to squash.

Seb is not alone in his emotions. There are students all over Oxford and indeed the UK experiencing similar states of agitation in relation to their university results – so many years of work boiled down to one piece of paper- but that does not soothe the blond any. He has barely seen any of his university peers recently and deep down he is sorely tempted to skip the graduation ceremony.

Everyone would think him mad. Graduating – and from Oxford University no less- is something he should want to brag about. He should be desperate for extra tickets and want to invite even his neighbours and the milkman to the event.

Sebastian's feelings are far from that bubble of proud, youthful excitement. Even the pride borne of the stubbornness that made him go through with an English course in the first place is not enough to make him want to put on an overpriced gown and smile through a long day.

Sebastian has not seen his father in a long time. He rather wants it to stay that way. Awkwardly, he has seen the parents of a number of his peers far more recently, and in far more intimate circumstances than a graduation. Seb would rather not have to make small talk with his former clients and their graduating children ever, and especially not during his own graduation.

This degree is for him. No one else.

The fear that he has performed terribly refuses to leave Sebastian's body. It's not just in his head: it chills his limbs and keeps them stiff. His fingers tremble with nerves and his mouth dries like he is constantly on the brink of a fight. His cotton tongue trips and tangles and slurs his words through dry, numb, rubber lips and he has rarely felt so painfully inarticulate. He has accidentally bit the insides of his cheeks so often in recent days that not only does he spit red every time he brushes his teeth, and he finds blood in every mouthful of bitten food; his face stings and aches all day.

Sebastian does not talk. He wants to sleep. He wants to curl up and hibernate away until this whole sorry business has faded away.

And yet Seb can't sleep. He lies awake all night in a cold sweat over his looming grades and not even Professor Moriarty's stern voice in his ear in the small hours can stop Sebastian from tossing and turning for long.

Sebastian cannot remember being quite this fitful about university since his interviews. His teenage years now seem like a rather long time ago, and the agonising wait to find out whether he would be accepted into one of the most prestigious schools in the country -and indeed, far beyond- had felt like a torturously long time in itself.

This was worse. Much worse.

If Seb's peers had found it odd that he had barely noticed the eggs and pasta sauce thrown over them as they had left their exams (Oxford being, of course, full of many ridiculous traditions) they can hardly fail to notice his absolute withdrawal from them. Like the illusive black ribbons of the sub fusc uniform students are expected to wear into exams, Sebastian Moran has for the most part seemed to have simply disappeared off of the face of the earth. Members of the Moriarty household are even more concerned by Sebastian's anxiety. On the morning of Seb's final exam Professor Moriarty had given the blond a traditional red carnation; the young man had burst into tears right there in his commoner's gown, and Sebastian had been on obvious tenterhooks ever since.

The blond's examination results have now appeared online in the student self service but Sebastian does not dare look at them.

“Well?” the Moriarty household prompts him. “How did you do?”

Sebastian finds himself in another flood of tears and refuses to speak, to check his results, or to let anyone else look. Jamie threatens to give him a sound paddling with her hairbrush for his impractical behaviour, but her brother comes to Sebastian's rescue with a surprisingly calm shake of his head and a light hand on his sister's shoulder.

“He'll open it when he's ready,” the professor says.

Sebastian worries he may never feel ready. 

Professor Moriarty says that Seb's graduation is not for months anyway, and that if the brat wants to put off sexual release by being precious about peeking at the waiting grades then that is the fool's own prerogative. Sebastian paces for days and still does not dare look at his results.

Moriarty to an extent tolerates these mostly irrational mood swings of Sebastian's. The professor sighs a great deal and scolds Seb for pacing or otherwise being a distraction; he sends Sebastian to the naughty corner repeatedly and indeed even gives the young man a few exasperated spankings, but on the whole is remarkably calm about the whole affair. 

Professor Moriarty seems almost entirely nonplussed about Sebastian's degree results for several days, until the brunet appears home unexpectedly in a temper of his own on a day when he typically gave tutorials to his students. His teaching robes swirl around him as he storms in with the chill of a December wind looking more demonic than ever.

Sebastian might have been frightened was he not already near paralysed with nerves.

Anger crackles across Professor Moriarty's face and the devil's accent is stronger than ever. “ _Why are you listed to receive your degree in absentia_?” the Irishman bellows.

Sebastian flinches. He hadn't told the professor his response to a certain little email he had been sent in late November and it is clear from Moriarty's stormy expression that the brunet is now _livid_.

Professor Moriarty approaches menacingly. “I asked you a question, young man!”

Seb shrinks back a little as though he is not considerably larger than the older man. “I didn't wanna go,” Sebastian mumbles.

“Why the fuck not?” Moriarty snaps. “All that work you've-”

“It's not _for_ anyone else,” Seb interrupts. “I don't need to sit through an hour of Latin and stand in front of a crowd to get some stupid bit of paper-”

“You've spent years working towards this degree!” Moriarty protests.

“And I don't need a ceremony to tell me that!” Sebastian says. 

“The ceremony is to mark your achievement. It's a celebration of your hard work,” says Moriarty.

Sebastian shakes his head stoutly. “I don't want to be the centre of attention.”

“You're hardly going to be the only one there,” Moriarty points out tartly. “Also, _since when_ do you not like being the centre of attention?”

Sebastian bites his lip and looks at his hands. “I don't want to go,” he says firmly.

“Se- _bast_ -ian...” Moriarty prompts.

Seb frowns and stares at his hands. Knuckles pale, they wring each other seemingly of their own accord.

“Little boy...” the professor warns.

Sebastian looks up. “Do you know how long it's been since I've seen any of my family?”

Moriarty raises his brows disapprovingly at the other's sharp tone but the brunet gestures to indicate he is listening. “Go on?”

Seb drops his gaze again belligerently. “I'm not going,” he grumbles.

“You're going, even if I have to birch your bottom every night and morning until you do,” Professor Moriarty asserts.

“You can't make me!” Sebastian insists.

“You're going,” the Irishman insists. “You worked for it; you earned it; _you're going_.”

Sebastian squares his shoulders and juts his chin. “No-”

“Oh, you are going, young man,” the professor says with a quiet firmness. “I don't care whether you invite your family or not; you are going to your graduation ceremony.”

“It's nothing to do with you,” Seb mumbles. His neck warms a little as he says the words as he guiltily thinks of all the ways the Irishman has helped him achieve a degree.

“And it is _everything_ to do with you,” Professor Moriarty responds, surprising Sebastian a little. The older man firmly continues, “You have starved and worked yourself to the bone for your degree so you are going to go to your ceremony and you're going to get an overpriced photo of yourself wearing an ugly robe that you can look at in years to come and know that you have _achieved_ something and be proud of yourself.”

Sebastian blinks. His internal emotions feel a lot more like panic than pride. He asks softly, “Are you proud of me?”

“Of course I'm proud of you,” the brunet devil responds.

“But it's just a degree,” Seb says. “Loads of people have degrees. You've taught hundreds-”

“Thousands,” interrupts Moriarty, “and that doesn't make the achievement any less special. You are graduating from Oxford University and such degrees are not just handed out like Hallowe'een treats to any brat who fancies one, Se- _bas_ -tian. You've worked hard!”

Sebastian considers, and then he pales. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Moriarty quirks a brow tersely. “What now?”

Seb blushes, feeling stupid, but immediately goes looking for something with internet access. “I'm graduating,” he mutters.

“Yes?”

“Which means I passed!” Sebastian blurts.

“Of course you fucking passed!” Professor Moriarty scoffs.

“How would you know?” Seb asks. He switches on his device breathlessly.

“Because I have seen the standard of your work for a start,” Moriarty responds. “Is this seriously just occurring to you now? That you've passed?”

“YES,” Sebastian replies, and then he gives a small, awkward smile. “I guess that's stupid...”

“Oh you are incredibly stupid, and I do not know why I share a bed with you, young man, _but how could you not know you had passed_?” Moriarty rants.

Sebastian bites his lip. “I… I just didn't think-”

“What, that you were good enough?” Moriarty bites. “Do you think I would have insisted you get merit grades before I fuck you if I didn't think you'd even _pass_? You utter _fool_.”

Seb swallows. “I...”

“Oh for God's sake,” Jamie interrupts, rising where she had been silently observing the situation, “ _will_ you just CHECK YOUR GRADES so we can continue on with our sorry lives?”

Sebastian logs in with shaking hands. He almost drops the tablet as the page loads and he has to close his eyes as he scrolls closer to his results. He thinks he must be sick.

“You need to actually look!” Jamie admonishes.

Sebastian shakes his head. He thrusts the device at Professor Moriarty and tells himself inwardly (entirely unconvincingly) that he is much too much of a man to throw up over exam marks anxiety.

“Well?” Jamie demands.

Her brother is silent as he stares at the screen. “Are you certain you don't want to look?” he asks Seb quietly.

The blond shakes his head. “I don't know,” the blond mumbles, “do I?”

“You might want to see...” says Moriarty lightly.

Sebastian looks up quickly. Panicked, he asks, “ _How did I do_?”

Professor Moriarty makes a face. “You should look.”

Seb covers his face with his hands then peers through his fingers nervously. “I don't think I can. I think I'm going to have a heart attack. Or pass out. Or something. I feel sick.”

“Oh well if you're _sick_ you can't get laid,” Moriarty says casually.

Sebastian blinks extremely quickly. “Laid?” he repeats uncomprehendingly. “Did -did I pass? _Did I pass well_?”

Professor Moriarty sucks air through his teeth. There's something playfully sadistic in his dark eyes that makes him look particularly handsome and wise. He purrs, “Oh I don't know; are you clever? Maybe you should look.”

“Did I pass?” Sebastian demands. “Did I really, really pass?”

The Irish devil hands over Seb's results. “Of course you passed,” Moriarty says drolly. “Did you seriously think I would let you fail?”

Sebastian winces and tries to force himself to look at the lit screen. “Was it a good pass?”

“Sebastian, darling, if you don't look for yourself I am going to take that thing off of you and send you to put your pyjamas on,” Jamie warns. “Stop being a drama queen and tell me what you got.”

The screen has gone dark in Sebastian's trembling hands. He wakes his device gingerly and fearfully looks at it. His head swims.

“Well?” Jamie presses.

Sebastian cannot speak. Mutely he hands her the tablet. He thinks he might cry.

Jamie takes one look at the screen then almost hits Seb around the head with it. Her brother's hand grips her bicep in restraint as she exclaims, “All that stress we've been under and you. Got. THAT!”

Sebastian isn't sure it can be real. He feels Moriarty's hand on his curls.

“I am very proud of you,” the professor says with a quiet firmness.

Tears prick Seb's blue eyes. “I didn't think I could...”

“ _You did it_ ,” says Professor Moriarty, “and we are _so proud_ of you, Sebby.”

Sebastian sniffles. “It's really real? I really, really did that?”

Jamie rolls her eyes. “I have no idea how given your clear lack of brains, but yes, Basher, _yes_ , you have done fantastically well.”

Sebastian covers his mouth. He is confused and gratified and if he is not careful he is going to _properly_ cry. “I'm sorry for being such a nervous wreck,” he croaks.

Jamie rolls her eyes. “You're lucky you're cute.”

Moriarty massages Sebastian's scalp and Seb realises the professor is still touching him fondly. “What do you want to do?” Moriarty asks.

“Do?” Seb asks blankly.

“Shall we take you out for a meal to celebrate your success, and then take you home and give you your reward?” elaborates Professor Moriarty.

Sebastian chuckles weakly. He is still shaking. “I think right now what I need first is a nap.”

Dark eyes wash over him intelligently. “Alright, let's get you into bed,” Moriarty says with a gentle tug of Seb's hair. “You can get some time to recover and then we'll take you out and spoil you.”

“Spoil him?” Jamie scoffs. “I've a mind to pull him over my knee for the amount of unnecessary fuss he's made!”

Sebastian blushes and his tummy flutters. “I'm sorry,” he apologies.

“Perhaps I'll put you over my knee for your graduation picture,” Jamie threatens. “A nice _family photo_.”

Seb rubs his face. “We don't have to do the graduation ceremony do we?” he whines.

Professor Moriarty tugs the blond's hair. “You'll do as Daddy and Auntie Jamie tell you, young man, or you will be sleeping on your tummy, wonderful grades or not.”

Sebastian swallows. “Will… will you come?”

The Moriarty siblings exchange exasperated looks. “Yes, yes we'll come,” Moriarty mutters. He pinches the bridge of his nose then says, “Bedroom. Before I throttle you.”

Jamie rises and swans on ahead of them. Sebastian watches her straight back and sweeping curves for the barest of glances before looking back at Jamie's darkeyed brother, whose gaze has not left him. Seb is uncertain how that attention makes him feel.

“Are you sure you can come?” Sebastian asks quietly. “You're a-”

“I'm not officially your tutor,” Professor Moriarty says calmly. “One more professor in the Sheldonian isn't going to draw an excessive amount of attention, and if a lovely specimen like my sister joins us, what of it?”

“Everyone knows who my dad is,” Sebastian says quietly. “People will notice he's not there. They'll talk about me being with you instead.”

Moriarty nods in a considered fashion. His eyes still do not leave Seb's. “Does that bother you?”

“Does it bother _you_?” Seb counters. His cheeks turn pink as he points out, “A lot of the fathers who will be in attendance know what I've done to pay my bills.”

The dark-haired professor rolls his eyes. “Oh please, like you are the first student in England to resort to sex work. Besides, they can no longer afford you.”

Sebastian feels an odd warmth in his chest. He gives a tiny nod.

Moriarty puts his hand on the small of Seb's back and pushes. “Come along. Stop thinking so hard before my delightful sister thinks up a way to punish your tardiness.”

Sebastian inclines his head a little to listen to the confident Irish burr. It feels nice, that touch on his back. Being guided forwards thus is reassuring and thrilling all at once. Sebastian loves being touched by this captivating devil.

Jamie has changed into something 'more comfortable' by the time the men reach the bedroom. She is wearing yet another of her brother's shirts. She is already almost all legs, and wearing her shorter sibling's clothing only accentuates that fact.

“Will you stop using my couture to paint in?” Professor Moriarty protests. He sounds amused.

Jamie scoffs and tosses her hair. “It's from last season.”

Moriarty pushes Sebastian past her into the room. Jamie drapes herself against the doorframe and gives the blond an odd look; it is undeniably predatory, but for once Sebastian does not feel like she is about to pounce.

“Shall I fetch you when I've done with him?” the captivating devil asks her.

Sebastian looks back quickly.

Jamie tilts her chin. She has not stopped looking at Seb with a hunger in her eyes that makes his skin break out in goosebumps.

“ _Immo vero_ ,” Jamie tells her brother. Sebastian's stomach flips at her affirmative answer and he momentarily regrets being coerced into agreeing he should attend graduation. Hearing dry Latin speeches when he knows how Jamie's lips can form those words shall make the experience intolerable.

Jamie takes out her phone and deftly snaps the camera button.

Sebastian gives her a shyly reproachful look. “You're going to paint me when I look like I haven't slept in days?”

“You're hardly going to sleep more any time soon,” Jamie responds nonchalantly. “I'm capturing the last images of you as a virgin.”

Moriarty smirks as though he understands the joke.

“Pretty sure I'm not a virgin...” Seb murmurs warily.

Moriarty's responding grin is not entirely sympathetic. “You might feel differently after we've had our turns with you.”

Sebastian swallows. “You're really both going to..?”

“Separately,” Jamie confirms in a bored voice. Her eyes sparkle playfully. “Do you take us for _criminals_ , Basher?”

“Criminals and deviants, no doubt,” Professor Moriarty responds before Sebastian can stutter out a reply. The glinting-eyed devil is clearly enjoying himself.

Jamie dips to kiss her brother's cheekbone. “Have fun, darling.”

Moriarty turns and gives Seb a look that makes the blond shiver (and twitch down below). “Oh, I intend to. But first, our boy said he needed a nap. Time you got ready for bed, isn't it, little one?”

Sebastian chews his lip. He doesn't particularly want sleep anymore. Nonetheless he sees value in trotting through to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he returns Jamie has left. The breathtaking devil she is related to sits on the bed with a self-satisfied expression. Moriarty can make any seat seem like a throne.

“What if I'm not tired?” Sebastian asks in a meek voice.

The professor exaggerates an expression of surprise and does not seem very surprised at all. “Oh? Perhaps you should come sit on Daddy's lap and show me how 'not tired' you are, Sebby.”

Sebastian smiles softly, ears pink, and obeys. He straddles Moriarty's thighs on longer legs and wonders at how much more powerful the dark-haired devil seems even when Seb towers over him like this.

Professor Moriarty pulls him down for a kiss and Sebastian responds happily. The brunet had shaved for work this morning but Seb has not done so for days. His pale stubble reddens the Irishman's pale skin and Moriarty's lips are a swollen, delightful red when he draws away.

“I'm so proud of you,” the professor murmurs.

Sebastian's tummy flips in pleasure and self-doubt. “I-”

“Worked hard and earned yourself a spectacular grade, yes, you are right,” Moriarty corrects. He gives Seb's hips a squeeze. “You've earned something else too, little boy.”

Sebastian swallows. “Even though I've been such a..?”

The older man bites Seb's neck briefly and hums an acknowledgement. “A highly strung child? Yes. I think I'll tie you down for that foolish nonsense.”

Seb's lips twitch in a smile. He agrees quickly.

Professor Moriarty chuckles and the blond is stripped of his clothing with teasing attention. Moriarty's hands around Sebastian's wrists as they are bound makes Seb's mouth dry. The professor squeezes Sebastian's inner wrist as though pleased by the racing pulse beneath his thin, deft fingers.

“Good boy,” says the devil.

Sebastian feels a surge of pleasure and spreads his legs wide. His mouth still feels devoid of moisture, even after having Moriarty's tongue in it.

If Sebastian's swollen arousal is anything to go by, his body has figured out how to make all of Seb's bodily fluids rush to his cock, not just his blood.

The Irish devil smiles cruelly and shakes his head. If the brunet had just jumped onto Sebastian's stomach Seb is certain he would have felt it sink with less weight.

Moriarty puts his palms on Sebastian's brown thighs and pushes. “I am going to have your arse,” he says, “but not tonight.”

Sebastian pulls against the restraints. “But you said-”

“Oh, I'm going to fuck you,” Moriarty says with smooth certainty. He stands and disrobes with such burning elegance that his clothes seem to melt from that pale body, then prowls back over Seb.

The blond beneath him watches with confusion as the incomprehensible devil takes out the lubricant and… prepares _himself_.

The smell of the lube is strong in Sebastian's nostrils and it is the only thing that persuades the blond that the sight before him is _real_ ; not a dream or sleep-deprived hallucination or downright madness.

Soft, wet noises are accompanied by the swift, sinful movements of Professor Moriarty's fingers. The dark-haired man meets Sebastian's blown eyes and smirks decadently. 

Bound or not, Seb tries to move forwards. He can smell and hear and see the spectacle before him but that isn't enough to convince him this is genuinely happening. Sebastian feels compelled to touch, and if he's lucky, _taste_.

Moriarty laughs wickedly and tuts. “I don't think so, little boy. If you can't be trusted to be in control of your education then you cannot be permitted any control over your orgasm.”

“I got a first with merits!” Sebastian protests with mild anguish.

Moriarty's dark eyes seem pleased. “Yes you did, Tiger. And that's why Daddy's going to let you cum at last.”

Sebastian's tummy tingles. “Really?” he asked in a hushed, hopeful tone.

“I said I'd reward you; didn't I?” the professor drawls.

Sebastian bites his tongue. He has no desire to provoke the dark-eyed devil by reminding Moriarty what a cruel tease he could be to Seb.

Moriarty smiles playfully anyway. “Poor Sebbikins. Do I mistreat you?”

Seb swallows. “Only when I ask nicely,” he answers carefully.

Professor Moriarty laughs and it is such an unexpectedly warm and genuine sound that it gives Sebastian pause. Ordinarily Seb feels like the captivating devil's plaything, but there is a fragile, deep fondness in Moriarty's amusement that almost makes Seb feel like the Irishman cares, and could offer more than their agreed transaction.

Sebastian looks away. He feels a moment of relief that Moriarty is distracted by looking down to empty out more lubricant and missed what Seb expects is probably a humiliatingly transparent and childish expression.

Sebastian's chest aches hollowly. He bucks his hips and tries to shake the unnecessary longing away. He is about to get _laid_ for the first time in forever… by his dark-eyed devil… for the first time.

“Little boy, you had better be patient if you don't want to impale your Daddy,” Moriarty growls softly, glancing up.

Sebastian chuckles, feeling oddly confused and soothed by the suggestion that the professor is ever not in control.

Moriarty gives him a crisply amused look. “Is something amusing, young man?”

Seb shakes his head quickly. “Just excited, sir. _Daddy_.”

Professor Moriarty hums in response as though considering the reply. His thighs are splayed before Sebastian and are the palest the blond has ever seen. Seb's skin is a pale brown; pale enough for blushing to be swiftly apparent and for his brachial arteries to be discernible in reasonable lighting. Moriarty is more liberally streaked with blue and greenish veins. They marble the devil's thighs and Sebastian aches to touch them. His lips give credence to his claim of excitement as they begin to tremble with the want of Moriarty.

The Irishman meets Sebastian's eyes and slips an obscene amount of slicked fingers inside of himself.

Seb's mouth waters and he suddenly barely notices the chafe of his restraints. “You… you don't need that many...” the younger man pleads.

Dark eyes glint and roll at Sebastian. “You're a big boy, Sebby darling, and Daddy doesn't climb into just _anybody's_ lap, you know...” Professor Moriarty purrs.

Seb swallows. He feels lightheaded and he can hear his pulse loudly in his ears and as he stares at the smooth-tongued devil the entire room seems to spin. Sebastian is unsure whether he is just so aroused it is making him dizzy – too much blood diverted elsewhere and not enough remembering to breathe- or whether Moriarty truly is some awful type of devil.

The dark-haired professor withdraws his fingers with a filthy-sounding, wet _pop_ and twirls them dramatically in the light. “There, now,” he announces in a hushed dangerous tone.

Sebastian becomes very aware of his bound, vulnerable state and feels suddenly very much like a human sacrifice. Professor Moriarty crosses the distance between them in the matter of a blink of an eye, except Seb was certain that he hadn't dared to blink, and then Moriarty's cold hands are flat on Sebastian's broad chest, and heavy-

Moriarty swings back and straddles Sebastian's hips with a smile. The blond lets out a shaky breath, his fear abating only slightly but his arousal heightening.

Moriarty runs his fingers down Sebastian's tan chest. Sweat is hiding in the sparse curls there.

“I've defiled less panicked virgins,” the Irishman comments.

Seb tries to be brave. “Maybe… maybe they didn't know how much of a tease you can be...”

Moriarty raises his brows. “I'm a sadist too. You're lucky to have me, Tiger.”

Sebastian thinks he might burst right then, but he's not sure from what. Too many emotions in his tiny, immature brain, probably. “How… How so?” Sebastian's traitorous tongue asks.

Professor Moriarty hums again and almost reaches for Seb's cock, then doesn't. “You like a man who's cruel to you, don't you pet?”

Sebastian bites his lip and shakes his head dishonestly.

Moriarty withdraws his tempting hand entirely. Sebastian thinks he might weep, but he's used to worse treatment.

“No?” Moriarty mocks perilously. “Are you going to tell me you aren't desperate to please a strict, cruel, Daddy who spanks your bare, naughty bottom good and hard in front of everyone, and who makes you work terribly hard for your rewards?”

Seb makes an unholy noise. He is leaking so much that it is dripping down onto the sheets off of him and he wonders if the dampness is what it feels like to be a girl.

“Pardon you, young man?” the professor teases. “Were you going to tell Daddy the truth, or were you foolish enough to be about to lie to me?”

Sebastian shakes his head, which is a lie in and of itself. He fibs to Moriarty all of the time, not least because of the stinging red handprints he often receives across his bottom for them.

Moriarty raises a dark, intimidating brow. “If you don't want to speak, darling boy, Daddy can put something in your mouth for you...”

Sebastian's lips part instantly of their own accord. “Oh please...”

The dark-eyed devil moves forwards to trail fingers ever so lightly down Seb's face. Sebastian's flinches as a spark from Moriarty's fingertip electrifies his naked lip.

Moriarty smiles and toys with the flesh. “You want to suck on something, pet?”

Sebastian strains forwards in an attempt to lick the other man's finger's. Moriarty chuckles and moves out of the way. “No, Sebby. If you can't be a big boy who uses his words perhaps I should gift you a dummy instead...”

Sebastian blushes brilliantly and shakes his head.

Moriarty leans back, making the blond's eyes widen, and scratches his short nails against Seb's abs in a way that makes Sebastian gasp. “Are you sure?” Moriarty asks, “Because I didn't hear you say ' _no_ '...”

Seb looks away. He hopes in futility that the devil won't have noticed how such belittlement makes his tummy tingle. “I… want your cock, sir,” Sebastian says softly.

Moriarty smirks. “Yes, little one; you always do. Why should I comply?”

“Because I was good at class like you told me?” Sebastian mumbles.

The fingers on Seb's torso scratch his sides a little, causing him to hiss encouragingly. Professor Moriarty says, “Which is why I am going to treat you to an orgasm. I did not specify any other treats for my little boy.”

Sebastian leans as close as he can with his arms bound. He draws up his legs for more skin contact too. “I'll make it so good for you,” Sebastian promises. “I'm good with my mouth; I swear!”

Moriarty chuckles. “I am well aware of the reputation of your wicked little mouth, young man. You think I don't know what things you have made grown men do once you've had them in your sinful face?”

Seb stops straining. “You've asked around?”

The professor pinches Seb's side. “I do my research,” he tells the blond.

“What for?” Sebastian asks. “I'd tell you anything you wanted to know.”

“Yes, and you'd hardly be an unbiased source, would you?” Moriarty responds. He dips his face to kiss the reddened circle of Seb's skin.

Sebastian bites his lip. “You… you think I'd lie to you?”

“You'd tell me any lie you could think of in hope of provoking a trip over my lap,” Moriarty scoffs.

“Do you mind?” Seb asks quietly.

“Not at all, little one,” Moriarty says with a smirk. He tugs at the younger man's body hair. “I enjoy punishing you.”

“Good,” Sebastian says firmly. He takes a deep breath and asks, “What about rewarding me?”

Moriarty laughs and surprises the blond by reaching for a foil shape. “Oh, alright. You have earned it, after all.”

Seb freezes as the Irishman takes him in hand and rolls on the condom. The immediacy of getting what he so desperately wants almost puts Sebastian in shock.

Moriarty scoots closer and leans up on his knees. “What do you say, Sebby?”

“Please! Oh please oh please oh please...” Sebastian pleads at once.

Moriarty grins. “That's my boy.” He lines up and Seb does not dare breathe as the other man pushes down carefully on the tip of himself.

Hot. Hot heat, and tight and… why is he stopping? Sebastian uses all of his willpower not to throw his hips upwards with force like he wants to and instead gives Moriarty a wide-eyed, pleading look.

The devil meets Seb's eyes and lowers himself slowly. If he was moving atom by atom he would reach Sebastian's hilt quicker, or so the desperate blond suspects.

“Can I… can I? Can I?” Seb whimpers.

“Don't you dare,” Professor Moriarty whispers richly.

Sebastian groans and holds back his thrusts obediently. He wants to die. He wants to fuck Moriarty in half. He wants to _move_ and be _deeper_ -

Moriarty slides down the last length with force enough that the devil himself starts gasping. Sebastian fears he might cum from the sound and sensation combined but he manages to control himself with an effort he can hardly believe.

“If you shift as much as a hair's breadth, darling, I will stop this at once,” Moriarty warns.

Sebastian's heart almost stops and he shakes his head emphatically. “I'll be good! So good!” he promises easily.

Moriarty doesn't weigh much, but he is all Sebastian can feel. The Irishman is so small he probably has to keep his back straight with Seb inside of him, but Sebastian is the one who feels delicate. He does not dare even breathe lest he displease the professor, and the captivating devil knows it. Moriarty rises and lowers himself in a characteristic but surprising display of control that suggests his little white thighs are much more powerful than they look.

Sebastian thinks he might die. He takes shallow, overwhelmed breaths and wishes he could slide his hands up those moonbeam thighs and up further to squeeze that delicious little waist. Seb wants to grip Moriarty firmly and fuck that self-assuredness right out of the handsome devil.

Seb's not sure he actually could, but he'd love to try.

Moriarty's lips part and his cheeks and chest flush pink in a way Sebastian has never seen. If possible it makes Seb want the Irishman even more. Moriarty shines with a misting of sweat and his gleaming, shining, _dripping_ wet dick is pink and red and purple and the most colourful thing about him. It bounces tantalisingly just outside of Sebastian's reach.

“Kiss me,” Seb begs.

Surprisingly, the professor moves at once to obey. The Irishman lets out a shocking little gasp of discomfort and squirms as he crawls forward. Sebastian almost loses his wits at the proof that Moriarty really is small enough that Seb can almost stab within his ribcage.

Moriarty gives a dark-eyed glare that warns Sebastian not to say anything about it.

Seb welcomes the kiss quietly and opens his lips in delight as the slender devil forcefully tries to remind him just who the most powerful party here is. As if Sebastian would contest it.

Eventually Moriarty pulls back, both of them breathless, and the sudden gap between them chills the puddle of their arousal pooling atop Sebastian's belly. Moriarty grunts and impales himself fully again and Sebastian quite forgets the cold.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers.

“Language, baby boy,” Moriarty whispers.

“Sorry, Daddy,” Sebastian blurts at once. There's only so long he can cope with Moriarty rolling his thin hips like that and Seb is loathe to have his reward rescinded due to a lack of perceived etiquette.

Moriarty nods, looking unusually distracted. “Tiger?” he says.

“Sir?” Sebastian gasps.

“I am going to unfasten _one_ of your hands. You _shall not_ touch yourself and you _certainly_ shan't cum until I tell you to; do you understand?”

“I'll be good; promise,” Seb answers. He moans at the feeling of Moriarty moving forwards over him again. It's so deep it's almost unbearable. Fuck.

Professor Moriarty releases one of Sebastian's hands and attaches it to his hot, wet cock. It's so warm that if Seb had never been inside the other man he might have thought it the warmest part of the handsome devil's body.

Sebastian squeezes experimentally and yelps as Moriarty bites the shell of his ear in response.

“Slow, firm, and entirely matching the pace I fuck you with,” Moriarty orders.

Seb forgives the throbbing ache of his ear at once. He thumbs the smooth head carefully and obeys with a skilled fist.

“When I cum you are going to swallow me,” Professor Moriarty declares.

Sebastian's tummy tugs. “Yes sir,” he agrees. He tries his hardest to do his best with his free hand. The angle is awkward with only one arm unbound but the noises the Irish devil makes suggest Moriarty's okay with it.

Suddenly Moriarty snarls and starts to snap his hips with increasing ferocity. He grabs Sebastian possessively and Seb does his best to match the pace of his arm to that of Moriarty's fiercely bouncing, white arse.

Suddenly the firm hands are in his hair and Sebastian has a bare moment to register the lack of said warm, tight arse around his dick before Moriarty's cock is ripped from his hand and thrust towards his face. Sebastian opens his mouth obediently and does his best to both pull Moriarty close and breathe sufficiently as the devil fucks his face with forceful, increasingly irregular movements.

The noise Moriarty makes in his narrow little throat sears itself in Sebastian's mind and suddenly there is an addictive, scalding liquid squirting in choking jets across Seb's tongue. He has to pull that scrawny white arse close to angle the shots better down his throat so he doesn't choke and it surprises Seb that Moriarty encourages this, fingers scrabbling at his hair but not pulling nearly as hard as Seb knows the devil would were Moriarty displeased.

Moriarty slumps, untangling one hand to slap sweatily against the cold wall and hold himself up. “Good boy,” he croaks in a surprisingly floaty little voice.

Sebastian swallows and nods.

Moriarty clears his throat and his voice reverts to something much more controlled. “I expect you to beg if you want your reward.”

“Please oh please-”

Moriarty tugs Sebastian's head back, interrupting the shameless response. Seb looks at him questioningly, big eyes wide and silently submissive.

“You are going to beg me by name,” Moriarty announces.

“Please, Mor-”

“No,” says Moriarty.

“Please, Prof-”

“ _Hush_ , impatient child,” Moriarty scolds mockingly. “Do you want to cum or not, Sebby?”

“Oh I want to cum, Daddy, _please_...” Sebastian gasps. He is hard and aching and openly desperate.

“Jim,” Moriarty says.

Sebastian does not understand for a beat.

“Must I spell it out, little one? I thought you were a graduate,” Moriarty drawls.

“Jim? Jim Moriarty?” Sebastian blusters, thrown.

The professor inclines his head. “That's Daddy's name, pet, now… Ask nicely.”

Sebastian's heart thumps. He thinks perhaps he was just gifted something more significant than what he was promised. “Please, Jim Moriarty, sir… I...”

The brunet tugs Sebastian's scalp back. The blond's Adam's apple bounces as he looks up at the smaller man.

“ _Please Jim_ ,” Moriarty whispers roughly.

Sebastian swallows. “Please, Jim,” he repeats.

Moriarty pulls away and adds some more lube. He lines himself up and asks, “What did you say, Tiger?”

“Please, Jim!” Sebastian yelps.

Moriarty lowers himself, locking eyes with Seb, and wriggles his hips until Sebastian is breath-takingly _deep_.

“Oh, fuck,” Sebastian whispers.

Moriarty raises a brow. “Want me to fuck this orgasm out of you with a bar of soap in your mouth, little boy? Because I can arrange that.”

Seb swallows and shakes his head. “No, sorry. I'm be good. Please...”

Moriarty stills his hips. “Please, what?”

“ _Please Jim!_ ” Sebastian groans.

“Keep saying my name,” Professor Moriarty says softly, his voice no less dangerous than usual. “If you stop, I stop.”

Sebastian nods desperately. “Please, Jim… Oh, please Jim...”

Moriarty starts to move. It feels glorious. Seb almost forgets to speak, it feels so good, but he sees the steel in his devil's eyes and quickly repeats, “Please, Jim.”

Moriarty's eyelids flicker in self-satisfaction as he snaps those hips in thorough movements that catch Sebastian's breath expertly.

“ _Please_ , Jim...” Sebastian moans.

Moriarty's pace quickens in a way that is almost overwhelming. The devil's movements become much more energetic and Sebastian is almost worried he is going to get hurt from the way Moriarty slams over and off of him in frenetic repetition, but it is all Seb can do to keep repeating his mantra. “Please Jim please Jim please...”

The seductive devil seems to understand before Sebastian does when the blond is close. “I'm proud of you, Sebby,” the Irishman says abruptly.

Sebastian shudders and he feels a heat in his chest that he is too far gone to keep hidden in his eyes. “Kiss me!” he begs. “Please, Jim, Daddy, please kiss me!”

Moriarty does so, ferociously, all teeth and clashing tongues and firm fingers gripping Sebastian hard enough to bruise immediately. Not once does he slow that punishing, rewarding pace.

“Please, _Jim_!” Sebastian gasps in his devil's hot mouth.

The brunet pulls him close. “Cum for me!” he growls in Sebastian's ear.

Sebastian's brain short circuits and he does exactly as he is told. His hips smash up into Moriarty with such force that the little brunet has to fall forward and cling to Seb's broad neck. The angle is awkward with Sebastian's one bound wrist but the young blond is long past caring. It has been month after month after month since he has been permitted this and he bellows as he explodes, spilling a vast amount of hot liquid that the professor can feel even through the condom. The dark-haired devil clenches around Seb and the sensation is the last thing Sebastian remembers before he hits the pillows in full on darkness.

When Sebastian wakes up, Moriarty is dressed again and smells like he has showered. That flutters something like disappointment in Seb's stomach, but he's still too limp and satisfied lying there to care overmuch. He notices both his hands are free, but a red line remains around one. Seb smiles.

Moriarty chuckles and Sebastian instantly feels reassured. “Welcome back, lazybones,” the professor says in a warm Southern Irish drawl. “Was that worth the wait?”

Sebastian crinkles his nose. “If I say 'yes' will you make me wait that long again?” he asks suspiciously.

“Perhaps,” answers Professor Moriarty unsympathetically. “Why, are you ready to go once more?”

Sebastian twitches and that answers the question for both of them.

“Oh, to be young,” Moriarty says. He only looks a few years older, but the way he says it further cements Sebastian's suspicions that his dark-eyed devil may be immortal.

Still, that is not the smart thing to say. “I think you just stored so much of me up that I've got plenty to spare,” Sebastian responds.

The professor rolls his eyes. “Well, if you're ready for your next bout, you had best be on your way.”

Sebastian rolls over with a frown to face the brunet. “What?”

“I dare say my sister's waiting,” Moriarty says. “You were asleep for some time.”

Sebastian swallows. “You're serious about letting your sister have me?”

“We didn't grow up together,” Moriarty says with a shrug. He stresses his accent as he says it, as though the difference between his words and Jamie's is explanation enough. Sebastian supposes hell and the land of the faes _would_ be different places to grow up, but it doesn't make this situation any more understandable to him.

“You're okay with this?” Seb presses.

The professor looks at him. “Perfectly fine. Although you might not be if you make Jamie wait too long. She's not known for being _gentle_. Off you pop.”

Sebastian is uncertain how to respond. Before he can lose his nerve the blond leans over swiftly and kisses the professor's cheek. “Thanks, Jim.”

Seb darts backwards to be safe of any swipes his way and looks for his clothes. He needs to wipe himself down: there were so many liquids on his skin earlier that they have not all dried in yet.

“Go,” Moriarty says curtly. “Some of us have work to do.”

Sebastian looks up. There is something off about the brunet's tone or expression, but Moriarty raises his brows in a way that ensures Seb knows he had best leave sharpish. The blond grabs his pants and scarpers out of the room.

Then he remembers how populated the cursed house is.

Sebastian pulls on his underwear and pads swiftly barefoot over the expensive rugs that line the corridors that link the bedrooms of the Moriarty siblings. Seb would rather not meet any of the staff whilst in his underwear, but neither does he fancy provoking Jamie's ire by barging in on her. Following the smell of paint – acryllic, for once, she was clearly in a hurry- Sebastian knocks and hesitantly enters Jamie's bedroom. 

Professor Moriarty's shirt is gone, but there is a wet canvas propped on an easel at the other side of the cavernous room. Sebastian was expecting another portrait of himself, but somehow this one surprises him. The brushstrokes are uncharacteristically rough for Jamie's work, which must surely be because no more than two hours can have passed, yet the style seems deliberate. It seems to capture all of Sebastian's nervous energy from before and he is startled by the amount of purple ringing his eyes in the picture. He knows Jamie has not exaggerated; she watches him more expertly than he ever scrutinises his reflection these days.

His eyes are painted with more care than the rest of him, and coated with something glossy which makes them shine animatedly.

He looks like a virgin in it. Sebastian stands and stares at the image as he self-consciously picks dried ejaculate from his sparse body hair. He wonders how Jamie would paint him now.

“Like it, Basher?” Jamie purrs.

Sebastian whirls around to face her. She smiles dangerously.

The woman is wearing a dark silk dressing gown which opens to reveal straps across her upper thighs and flat stomach. Sebastian swallows. He recognises a harness when he sees one.

Jamie's lips purse in amusement. “Oh, you've played with one of these before, have you?”

Seb shrugs and utterly fails at nonchalance. He's leaking through his boxers again.

Jamie approaches and grips his chin. “My brother's had his chance at your ass. Ready to take it like a man, Basher?”

Sebastian twitches. “Yes, please,” he says breathlessly. He feels guilty, as though his bottom were somehow promised to Professor Moriarty, but the blond feels powerless to resist. He is well aware he is a mere pawn in the siblings' confusing game.

Jamie snaps on a pair of gloves and Sebastian does not know how to respond to that. She smirks at his uneasiness and waves her manicured nails at him before her second hand disappears into the latex. The gloves are the dark kind used by tattooists and Seb cannot help but picture her fingers covered in blood.

“I oughtn't make you prepare yourself when we're celebrating your achievements, ought I?” Jamie teases.

Sebastian eyes her nails nervously. She approaches him as though carrying no such doubt.

Jamie gives Seb's bottom a slap that makes him flinch and tingle. “Bend over, Bash.”

Sebastian swallows but his reservations cannot prevent him from obeying. He pushes his underwear down without needing to be asked.

Jamie smiles, and she is more gentle than he has ever known her when she painstakingly slowly works her lengthy, clever fingers inside of him. Sebastian stays very still; as much as it is in his power to do so. He can feel Jamie's long, sharp nails move within him but they never cut.

Sebastian drops his face on her bed and groans.

Jamie had always seemed to Seb to be the sort of woman who demanded head under an office desk, but she does not asks for any reciprocal pleasure as she kneads and strokes the bundle of nerves which make Sebastian's bare feet jerk responsively.

Jamie pulls off her gloves and drops them like a discarded toy by a spoilt child. She reaches for something black and phallic that makes Sebastian's knees weak. It's smaller than he is, but he hasn't had much more than her brother's fingers inside him for a long time, and he is desperately eager and nervous.

“Beg nicely, darling,” Jamie says.

“Please,” Seb says at once. Confused guilt about Professor Moriarty pools in his stomach and makes his arousal especially tortured. “Please, please, please.”

“Don't say I'm never good to you,” Jamie says, and then she is inside him.

Sebastian cries out responsively. Jamie has long legs for a woman, so the angle is surprisingly natural. She puts one hand on his hip like she owns him and directs him forward over the bed with her other hand firmly on his shoulder.

“Comfortable?” she whispers.

She's not normally so gentle, and by her tone, Sebastian reckons she knows it too. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Good,” she says forcefully, and then she pulls back and slams her hips into him.

Sebastian howls.

“Did I say you could speak?” Jamie snaps. She cracks her palm off of his bottom, leaving a smarting, red handprint that makes Seb gasp, then she thrusts into him again with equal force.

Sebastian wants to protest that she didn't say he couldn't, and that he wasn't _talking_ , but he knows better.

She fucks him hard and fast. Sebastian grunts and gasps and whimpers. When she spanks him he bites his lip and tries not to grind into the mattress too noticeably. The more she thrusts into him the noisier Seb gets; Jamie reaches for his face and covers his mouth. He loves it.

Jamie bites his neck and shoulder, muttering belittlements that could probably make Sebastian cum untouched if she had the patience and inclination.

He jerks forwards suddenly, alarmed, startled and delighted when the toy within him starts to buzz. His toes curl. Jamie starts to rock more of a spiral shape into her thrusts, grinding every time she enters. Her force eases just slightly but he pace quickens. Her breathing quickens too. It is endearing and erotic all at once and her hot breath warms Sebastian's ear.

He shakes away her hand on his face.

“Jamie, I'm close!” he warns.

She nips the join of his neck and shoulder with her teeth and Sebastian feels lipgloss press against his sweating skin. “You can cum whenever you like, but I'm not going to stop fucking you until I've had my fill of your lovely little ass, Basher...” she purrs.

Sebastian gasps and cries out. He tries desperately to hold himself back, wanting to last for everything she evidently wants to do to him.

Her hand snakes down to his erection and Seb almost spasms right then. She squeezes the base firmly. “Need some help?” she says with faux sympathy.

Sebastian pants desperately. “Jamie, I can't hold back; I _can't_...”

“Cum any time you want to,” she repeats. “I'm going to cum over and _over_ on top of you...”

Seb whimpers. He is grateful when she squeezes him tight.

He manages to wait until the first time Jamie climaxes. She is loud, and even the pain of her scream near his ear isn't enough to hold Sebastian back after that. He cums with a wide-eyed yell.

Jamie strokes the nape of his sweaty neck for a few moments. “Happy?” she asks.

Seb nods, not able to speak.

“Good,” she says, “because I am nowhere _near_ done with you.”

Sebastian nods again dazedly.

She fucks him until he is a squealing, mewling mess, and his hips judder underneath him at some point even though he has certain he has nothing left in there to spill.

Afterwards Jamie slides out gently and pats Sebastian's bottom. He collapses onto the bed gratefully, his legs weak. He barely has the energy to blink.

She calmly unfastens the buckles around her and lets her toy fall to the floor unheeded. Jamie steps over it and around the bed. Her skin is red where the harness has left marks but it does not seem to pain her as she rolls casually onto her side.

Jamie is silent for some time before she reaches across to Sebastian's shoulder. He looks up at her quickly.

“You'd better go back to bed,” Jamie says.

Sebastian feels himself wake up. “What?”

Jamie gives a half smile and lifts her phone from the ornate bedside table nearest her. She shows Seb the screen and says, “Trust me. He's a little jealous.”

“Oh,” Sebastian says in a voice higher than his usual. Jamie has taken a screenshot of a Snap her brother has sent her, presumably rather recently. It is a photo of Seb unconscious and blatantly postcoital bearing the comment, 'all yours'.

“What are you waiting for?” Jamie murmurs. She pulls her duvet closer, away from him, and states, “Dismissed, Basher.”

Sebastian swallows. He waits a beat for her to say something further, but Jamie doesn't, so he slides out of the bed.

“You won't need clothes,” the woman says derisively as Seb circles the bed for his pants on wobbling legs.

He looks at her for a moment then snorts, his eyebrows raised. The Moriarties have more servants than Oxford gets applicants, or so it often feels. Still, he's not sure his legs will obey him if he tries to pick his boxers from the floor. He lifts her dressing gown from the foot of her bed and pulls it on. Jamie is a tall woman but her shoulders are much slenderer and its hem barely skims his bottom.

Jamie's lips twist in amusement. “Suits you. Goodnight.”

Sebastian grins back wryly. “G'night, Jamie. Thanks, I suppose.”

Jamie chuckles into her pillow. “There's no 'suppose' about it; you are a very lucky boy. Now go away.”

Sebastian swallows and steps out into the corridor. The only eyes on him appear to be the painted variety, but Sebastian trots back to Professor Moriarty's bedroom at a smart pace.

Moriarty is still in bed, but is holding his phone in both hands and typing swiftly. He looks up as Seb approaches.

“You're back?”

“S'bedtime,” Sebastian says quietly.

A ghost of a smile lifts the corners of the devil's mouth. “She kick you out?”

Sebastian swallows. His tongue shifts awkwardly within his mouth, but the way the brunet eyes his bare thighs makes him feel welcome.

“I should really make you shower after being in bed with her,” Moriarty says, but he puts aside his phone and pulls back a corner of the duvet encouragingly.

“I'll change your sheets in the morning,” Seb murmurs. He lets the dark garment slide from his broad shoulders and climbs into bed. Most of the wet patch is dry and Moriarty's legs radiate heat.

The Irishman raises his brows with a mutter of, “Too right you will.” He does not pull away as Sebastian glides along the sheets towards him.

Seb pauses a breath away from the devil's hot body. He waits for permission.

A warm, white thigh lightly furred in dark hair hooks around Sebastian and pins him close.

Seb drops his chin to the smaller man's chest. “Goodnight, Daddy.”

Professor Moriarty pets Sebastian's bleached curls with crisp affection. “Pleasant dreams, Tiger, darling.”

“Sir?” Sebastian whispers.

“What, brat?”

Seb keeps his eyes on Moriarty's pale skin. “Can… Is it okay if I call you Jim sometimes when we're not having sex?” 

Professor Moriarty is quiet for a beat. “When you're good,” he says at last.

“I'm always good,” Sebastian mumbles. He yelps as Moriarty pulls him up by the hair.

“Little liar,” says the dark-eyed devil. He kisses Sebastian soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp! Here you have it, the last chapter. I am sorry it took so long and I really hope you all love it somewhat.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented so far, you really help motivate me to post. <3
> 
> The first chapter of the next story in this series is written, and should be up soon. As always, feel free to poke me for updates here or on Tumbler @RammyRue


End file.
